


Chaotic

by theroguesgambit



Series: Chaotic [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Violence, Damaged Derek, Dark, Dark Stiles, Emotional Manipulation, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of canon character death, Mind Games, Minor Character Death, Nogitsune, Protective Scott, Psychological, S&M, Void Stiles, into Sterek, pre-Sterek - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-05
Updated: 2014-08-22
Packaged: 2018-01-18 07:50:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 42,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1420321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theroguesgambit/pseuds/theroguesgambit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post "Insatiable".</p><p>Stiles is probably (definitely, completely) in love with Derek. But he might not be the only one. Derek's chaotic soul draws the Nogitsune to him... and Derek might not want to be saved.</p><p>Well, screw that.  Stiles has lost enough to the demon; he's not about to lose the guy he loves, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is Part III of the "Chaotic" series. While it can be enjoyed on its own, I recommend checking out one or both of the earlier one-shots to know exactly what's going on.
> 
> "Feed the Chaos" and "Taste the Chaos" are almost exactly the same story, told from different perspectives - "Feed" from Scott's POV as he and Stiles listen in on the Nogitsune tormenting Derek, and "Taste" shows the same scene from Derek's POV.
> 
> If you decide to go in blind, here's a recap:  
> Post-"Insatiable", the Nogitsune tracks down Derek and corners him in his old lair at the rail yard. Derek calls Scott for help but the phone's knocked away and, Derek thinks, broken. The Nogitsune tortures, taunts, and toys with Derek, eventually using his feelings for Stiles against him, while Scott and Stiles secretly listen in. Eventually they hang up, and plan to track Derek down. And after they hang up, the demon infects Derek with a bug that completely destroys Derek's self-control, letting his "chaos" come out.

“So I’m starting to rethink this whole ‘confessing my deep, undying love to Derek’ idea.”

They were in Stiles’ Jeep, skating down a side road at sixty miles per hour. It was about three minutes after the original “so I guess I’m gonna confess my deep, undying love to Derek” declaration had taken place. The windows were down, driving cold air into the Jeep, and Scott dragged his attention away from trying to distinguish anything useful from the thousands of mundane scents floating around, to shoot his friend a skeptical look.

“Ok, first? Could you possibly chill out with phrases like ‘deep, undying love’ for a little bit? It's kind of a lot, dude. I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that you didn’t spend all that time talking about Derek because he scares you.”

Stiles’ fingers were beating fast against the wheel, drumming along to some rapidfire chase music only he could hear.

“Oh, no. Yeah, no, he definitely scares me. Not missing any memos on the whole ‘creature of the night, able to rip my throat out with one little love-bite’ situation. I have a deep and healthy respect for the wolfy superpowers -- and that goes for both of you so don’t you go feeling left out there, man. I mean, it’s not a _love_ -bite issue with you, obviously—”

Scott jumped in, stalling his friend’s ramble before it hit a whole new level of disturbing.

“Ok, so is that why you don’t want to tell him? The… ‘love-biting’…possibility?”

Stiles pulled a face, swinging the Jeep around a corner so fast he almost tumbled sideways in his own seat. Once he and the car had both recovered, he shot his friend a skeptical glance.

“No, Scott. I don’t think he’d _actually_ rip my throat out while we were necking. I mean… probably. He hasn’t done that with anyone else. That we know of. Right?”

Scott’s hand went to rub his forehead, something like “dude, if I was ever this crazy talking about Allison” about to escape his mouth before he stalled, feeling sick. For a second there, he’d actually forgotten.

What was it Mr. Argent had told him before he’d left the house that night? _Compartmentalize_.

Scott couldn’t think about it now. Couldn't afford to. He would deal with the Nogitsune and Derek, and his friend’s impending breakdown, and then maybe he’d survive to think about… everything else, later.

He forced his brain back on track, trying to pick up the lost thread of the conversation. Stiles, caught up in imagining Derek necking him or ripping his throat out or something, didn’t notice his friend’s stumble.

“Ok…” Scott leaned his head back into the November wind whipping through the window and drew in a deep breath. Stray animals, garbage, the distant scent of fast food. “Well if that’s not it then I’m at a loss, dude. ‘Cause you pretty much lucked into the best bit of pre-confession eavesdropping a guy could hope for.”

“No, no no, see… that’s what I thought at first too, but I’ve been running through the conversation on like nonstop, high-def replay since you hung up the phone.” And that answered the Where is Stiles’ Brain At question, at least. “And the more I think about it the more I’m realizing… he never actually said that he likes me. He never said anything vaguely sort of like that. In fact, I remember him saying very, very firmly that he did _not_ want me to be there.”

Stiles’ palms were beating into the wheel now, eyes moving with unnecessary interest over every hedge, house, and street sign they whipped past.

And Scott really wasn’t sure he was up for playing “Stiles and Derek relationship counselor” right now for more reason than one, but… well, his friend needed him. And if your friend needs to have weirdly awkward conversations about the romantic feelings of your emotionally stunted, slightly scary almost-pack members, you do it.

Besides, conversation helped. Thinking about trying _not_ to think about all those mental images Stiles was laying out for him helped. Filled up his brain. Distracted him from other thoughts.

“Ok, how about the whole ‘he feels chaotic around you’ thing?” And also the making out. And the _noises_ during the making out. Derek had been getting kind of disturbingly hot and heavy with Stiles' evil twin back during that phone call he didn't know Scott and Stiles were listening in on, and the sounds Derek made mid-makeout (the sounds  _Stiles_ made, mid-makeout) was something Scott could have happily lived without hearing.

His words just seemed to rile Stiles further. His friend was practically vibrating in his seat now as he drove.

“Yeah, but no, because he feels chaotic around the… the evil me thing. The Nogitsune.”

“That looks exactly like you.”

“But maybe that’s incidental. Maybe Derek’s looking at it thinking, ‘wow, demon fox, I’m super attracted to your dark evilness and your love of torturing things. It’s too bad you’re stuck looking like gangly awkward teenage Stiles, but I guess I can put up with it.’”

“Dude, seriously?”

Stiles’ shoulders had started to shrink inward. The car screamed to a stop outside the twins’ apartment complex, and Stiles turned to face Scott, not quite meeting his eyes.

“Tell me no. I mean it, tell me that you’re definitely, one hundred percent sure that Derek’s attracted to my awkward, non-wolfy, teenage gangly-ness.”

.-

“Shirt off. Now.”

They’d somehow made it off the cool cement floor, grappled each other as far as the broken down train car before Derek decided that movement was getting too much in the way of touching. So he’d pinned the demon to the side of the car hard enough to dent steel and savored the way it winced, its hands clenching into his sides, bruising.

Now it looked up at him, eyes glinting.

“Make me.”

Sparks were going off in Derek’s mind, flaring bright and burning out in hot jolts that made it impossible to think, to concentrate on anything besides what he wanted and the fastest path to getting it. He matched the demon’s gaze, teeth baring, and the shirt tore away at the slightest drag of a bared nail.

And if his claw bit into the Nogitsune’s skin, beading up a trail of blood across that taut, pale flesh, well…

Call it holding a grudge, but the thing _had_ impaled Derek and broken his arm not twenty minutes ago. He wanted to fuck the demon, that didn’t mean he was happy with it.

“I’m gonna kill you,” he promised, and meant it, tugging the ragged remains of the shirt off its shoulders, dragging a hungry hand up the stretch of exposed skin. Stiles’ exposed skin. This was the way Stiles’ skin would look, the way it would feel running against his palm… and it was just skin and shouldn’t all skin feel the more or less the same? But nothing so simple had ever sent thrills like this through him. This was unique.

Or maybe he’d just never let himself feel this much before.

With the bug burning through his veins now, he couldn't do anything  _but_ feel.

“Priorities, Derek. Screw me now, worry about killing me later.”

Sparks flashed in his brain, and there wasn’t anything beyond flesh, heat and “screw me,” and not being alone.

.-

The twins’ apartment had been worse than a bust. The pair had started out being less than helpful, and when they’d been filled in about Lydia being safe and Allison being… well, they’d gone from unhelpful to “get the hell out of our apartment before you bring a bunch of angry, murderous Oni down on us k bye” real fast.

So all Scott and Stiles had left with was that Derek had dropped the twins off a little over an hour before - which they’d already known - and that the twins wouldn’t stick their necks out to save anyone but themselves (and possibly Lydia and Danny), which they’d pretty much already figured.

“What the hell?” Stiles was a mass of angry nerves as the pair stalked out of the building, looking like he wanted to go back there and punch someone, knowing it would be a suicide move if he tried. “I mean… seriously, Scott, what the hell? I thought they liked you, wanted to be in your pack or whatever. I can’t believe they slammed the door in your face.”

Scott was taking the rejection more gracefully. Only one of them was allowed to freak out at a time. Best friend rules.

“They’re scared, dude. Can we blame them? I mean, after tonight, after…”

He trailed off when his eyes fell on Chris Argent standing, arms crossed, against the side of Stiles’ Jeep. The man's stance was stiff, unwelcoming, his face a mask of that same determinedly dead-eyed look he’d been wearing since he’d carried Allison from the courtyard, since he’d told Scott in no uncertain terms that he would allow himself to feel again only once the demon was dead.

It wasn’t surprising that he’d responded to Scott’s text about the Derek problem, just like it wasn’t surprising that the matching messages to Lydia and Isaac had gone ignored. Scott doubted either of them were in a state of mind to even check their phones right now.

He hadn’t messaged Kira. Part of Scott had reasoned it wasn’t really her fight. She hardly knew Derek, after all, and she’d done more than enough sticking her neck out for his friends already anyway. The less rational part of him realized he just didn’t want her anywhere near the Nogitsune. Not now. Not after Allison. Scott was only barely holding it together by not thinking about it _, can't think about it, focus on the problem in front of you._

But if something happened to Kira too…

“Did they give you any information at all?” Argent’s voice was even, toneless, and Stiles nearly jumped out of his skin.

“Oh my freaking— _hey_ , Mr. Argent. You’re doing some really good blending in with the shadows, there.”

The street _was_ actually pretty dark, Scott realized, noticing for the first time that the nearest three streetlights had blown out. He didn’t really need their light to see, so he hadn’t thought about it.

Didn’t lights blowing out usually signal something pretty bad going down? It did in the movies, anyway.

Derek had been here, the last place he'd been seen. And then the Nogitsune had found him.

Argent was uncrossing his arms and lowering them (precise, even movements) to his sides. Scott cleared his throat.

“They just said that Derek dropped them off here to finish healing up, and haven’t heard from him since.”

“Yeah,” Stiles snapped, raising his voice and scowling back toward the building, where the twins were doubtless listening to everything they were saying. “And apparently they’re just out, now. Heading for the hills. Doesn’t matter that he _just saved their hides_. Whatever, right? I mean, doesn't matter, he's probably already dead--”

He cut off, wincing, venom draining from his tone as fast as the color from his cheeks. He glanced to Scott, who just looked away, grimacing, and then over to Argent.

“I mean…”

Argent’s eyes had slid for just a second, his fingers clenching into a fist before pointedly straightening out.

“No, you’re right, Stiles. They’ve given up. But they’re wrong to. We aren’t losing anyone else to this thing, do you understand me?”

Both boys found themselves nodding and Stiles, without a hint of irony, uttered a faint, firm “yes, sir.”

“Good. Now you both have to think. Derek was here before it started chasing him. Where’s the closest place he would run to for safety?”

.-

The goal of the game had shifted, somewhere down the line.

It _was_ still a game; the Nogitsune would argue that everything in this world was part of somebody’s game. It was just a matter of knowing the pieces, the players, and what the ultimate prize was.

At the moment, that prize included Derek.

The wolf’s skin was hot, feverish, as he fell back against the demon. Effects of the bug burning through him, or maybe sheer lust, and the demon’s body surged against it, bare flesh sliding against the other’s blood-slicked shirt.

There was a part of the demon, a very small, Stiles-shaped section of brain matter, that couldn’t quite wrap its head around the fact that this was happening. _Finally happening._ Conflict thrilled through it – lazy confidence warring with heady rushes of almost-panic – and it smirked against the wolf’s bruising mouth.

Aftershocks of its former host.

The demon floated joyfully through its own chaotic nerves – echoes of lust, longing, and inadequacy – and hooked a calf around Derek’s thigh. He reacted immediately, gripping the leg, pulling it up and angling their hips so they ground together in a way that made them both break from the kiss, gasping. But staying still wasn’t an option for either of them, and Derek’s hand was clutching the other leg, tugging it up to wrap around his waist, increasing the friction, his nails digging welts in the demon’s thighs. And the Nogitsune pressed against the cool, dented steel of the train car and used the katana-sized hole in Derek’s shirt to tear it open, exposing a set of nearly-healed, bloodstained abs you could bounce a small boulder off of. A distant voice in its mind seemed to breathe _show off_ even as it decided they weren’t shown off nearly enough.

A hand drifted out to trail over the lines of hard muscle, but the fox glanced up as Derek, startled, went still. Pale green eyes, almost silver, were searching the demon’s face like they weren’t sure what they were seeing. The demon could read the look easily.

He wasn’t comfortable with softness. Didn’t know if he wanted it.

_Wouldn’t get it, then._

“I’ve missed this,” the demon explained, shrugging, raking its fingers more roughly against the still-damaged flesh. Derek’s eyes went hooded, right hand releasing its leg and bracing heavily against the bent steel car. God, this was so easy with Derek's inhibitions stripped down. He wanted it so much.

And pain, unlike softness, Derek knew how to deal with.

“Skin on skin,” the demon breathed, feeling Derek shudder, the way his hips reflexively rolled forward.

And it _was_ true; it had missed this. Not much of this happening when you were stuck inside the body of a bandaged burn victim or trapped within someone’s mind.

And Derek’s whole body was an open wound now, the effects of the infection sparking through him, shutting out any attempts to control his own reactions. He had no restraint, no control. He was the absolute definition of chaos, and the Nogitsune had never witnessed anything so beautifully devastating.

There was no question of how much of this desire came from the fox, and how much from the boy whose form it occupied. It didn’t work like that; they were one. The Nogitsune was a spirit creature, with no body or form of its own. It could exist alone, but was only truly whole when it had a host. And while its drive, purpose, _raison d’etre_ , was always the dissemination of chaos, its methods were tempered by the minds of those it possessed.

Its last body had burned for vengeance, and that had manifested itself in mass murder, an endless bloodbath, before it had been defeated. This body… this body burned for Derek. For _acceptance_. For a hundred other petty, oh so human pursuits that were as fun to manipulate and rail against as they were to surrender to. Designing riddles, planning strategies. Preying on poor Scott’s oh so predictable empathy and forcing him to absorb the suffering of others. The demon was Stiles now nearly as much as it was the Nogitsune, and would be until it was called away to a new host.

And so it had been inevitable that the creature would find its way to Derek eventually.

Of course, its original plan had been to taunt and toy with the wolf until he broke. Maybe it still was. But there were other urges to satisfy first.

“You think you’ve been alone a long time, Derek?” It couldn’t stop the words from escaping. The power of physical sensation and the echo of that boy in his brain making the demon lose track of itself. “Try a century or so. See how you feel.”

Derek’s hand clenched on his thigh. A nearly sweet, protective, _possessive_ caress that hinted at his true feelings even as he snapped “Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?”

The demon’s eyes rolled and it leaned in, caging Derek's head with its forearms, nails raking against Derek’s scalp.

“You’re not _supposed_ to feel anything but what you’re feeling, Derek. Don’t you get that yet?”

.-

There weren’t words to describe the sensations sparking through him. Or if there were, Derek couldn’t think of them, and that didn’t matter because he was _feeling_ them.

And God, he could feel everything.

His own desperate growl reverberating through him, pliant lips and aggressive hands responding as he drove the creature against the wall, kissing hard, hungry and deep.

And part of him knew he should be fighting this, and most of him didn’t care, and every part of him was just glad he didn’t have that option anymore because what better excuse for taking everything you’ve ever wanted than ‘I literally don’t have a choice’?

Then the heat of the demon’s legs was gone from his hips but there was a heady rush of motion and then  _Derek_ was being slammed, chest first, against the cold train car. Heat crowded in behind him, a hand sliding up his back and trailing across the curves of his tattoo.

“I _have_ missed this,” Stiles’ voice breathed against his ear. It sounded soft and sincere and prickles of dread ran through Derek because Jennifer had sounded soft and Kate had sounded sincere… but then the demon’s chest was pressing against his back and the hand wrapped around to claw slowly up his chest, nails digging deep enough to leave welts in their wake, so that Derek could feel them bump over every rib as they traveled upward.

It wasn’t soft and it wasn’t sweet and it transformed the start of a tremble into a satisfied shudder because pain was _honest_. Pain, he could trust. People didn’t dig welts into your chest if they were planning on stabbing you in the back.

“I’ve never had this,” he breathed, meaning too many things.  Not sure what he meant.  Not able to stop the words from escaping, not able to even try.

The demon’s lips were grinning as they kissed hard into his neck, as teeth dragged savagely across the line of his jaw. As the hand trailed down again, skating across his waist and thumbing open the button of his jeans.

“ _Coup de foudre,_ ” it breathed, and the sparks were flashing through Derek so fast and hot he could hardly hear it. “You have me, Derek. Do what you want to me. I’ll take what I want from you. I’m not going anywhere.”

And after everything that had gone wrong in Derek’s life, that was all he really needed.

.-

They were definitely at the right place.

Stiles didn’t have any special spider-senses to help him out with that one, but he didn’t need them. Even he could pick out the black-red puddle of blood staining the center of the dimly lit room.

“Puddle” was an understatement. Didn’t even come close to describing the four-foot wide semi-circle of viscous crimson coating the ground like a throw blanket. And that wasn’t even counting the other, smaller stains smudged across the floor, or the blood still clinging to the discarded sword, or…

It was too much, too much blood. Anyone who’d lost that much wouldn’t still be walking around to talk about it. Anyone who’d lost that much blood would have to be—

The ground seemed to be wobbling around under Stiles, and _wow_ was this a bad time for an earthquake, right? Except then Scott was gripping his arm and the room stopped wobbling and unless Scott had some kind of werewolf earthquake-stopping superpowers Stiles didn’t know about, that meant he’d been the one wobbling, not the room.

Right. Ok.

He drew in a breath and forced himself to look away from the blood, over to Scott. Scott, who was a werewolf. Just like Derek. And they could heal faster, they could survive worse than any normal human could. Derek was ok.

If he wasn’t ok, his body would be lying here with all the blood.

“Where—“ he started, softly, but stopped when Argent held up a hand, caught his gaze, and shook his head. Then he flicked two fingers out toward the blood and forward, and Stiles had never gone on any commando-soldier hunting retreats but he was able to follow that signal easy enough. He steeled himself and looked back toward the blood puddle (lake, ocean, freaking _body_. Get it, body? Haha…) and, trailing his gaze further, was able to make out a cluttered mass of footprints leading toward the subway car. Then there was the dented metal smeared with blood, and, fainter, smudges of red dragging along the side of the car until they reached the doors.

They hadn’t left. They were here, right inside. The Nogitsune/body thief/killer-slash-Derek abductor was less than 10 yards away, hidden by a thin wall of steel and smudged glass.

Scott’s nostrils were flaring, his eyes glowing an eerie red in the dim light, but he was grimacing and it was obvious he couldn’t make anything out past the scent of the blood.

Argent held up a hand again – _wait_ – and took a soundless step forward.

And Stiles’ laughter started echoing in his own ears.

It sounded higher than usual, but maybe that had something to do with it being unintentional crazy-person laughter, and his hand had made it all the way to cover his own mouth before he realized the sound wasn’t actually coming from him. He dropped the hand, relieved, except… wait. Was that better or worse?

Because if Stiles wasn’t bursting into random hysterics, that meant the demon with his voice was laughing at them.

Argent’s crossbow was up and aiming in clipped intervals between shadows, and Scott’s nails had clenched into Stiles’ arm so sharply he’d probably need stitches.

And Stiles couldn’t drag his eyes away from the battered train car because, no matter where the Nogitsune had ended up, that’s where the trail led. That’s where Derek was. And what the hell were they going to find when they went in there?

“So the cavalry arrives to save the day.” The demon’s voice, light and laughing, seemed to dance off the walls, echoing from everywhere at once. “Have you ever noticed how the cavalry never arrives in time to do anything useful? No matter how fast they run, how hard they try, they only ever show up in time to carry the broken pieces home. It’s a real flaw in the whole heroic scheme of things, wouldn’t you say, Christopher?”

Stiles’ eyes flicked to Argent. His hands were clenched white on his crossbow.

“Why don’t you come out and we’ll see how useful I can be.”

Scott released Stiles’ arm (and oh good, it wasn’t gushing blood and he still had feeling in it and those were probably all good signs on the stitches front) and started stalking in slow circles around him like an honor guard. Which might’ve been nice if it didn’t show that Scott was completely terrified for Stiles’ safety _and_ felt completely helpless to do a single thing about it.

“What?” The demon’s laugh seemed to come from behind Stiles, the next words echoing from the shadow on the left. Constantly moving. “Are you going to shoot me with one of your silver arrows, Argent? I’m not as easy to kill as my Oni.”

“Maybe,” the hunter growled, “But shove an arrow through just about anything’s eye and you’re bound to slow it down.”

It laughed again, and Stiles really wished it would stop doing that. Because it was using his voice, damn it, and he didn’t like having his own sadistic laugh ringing in his ears.

“Oh, taste all that repressed rage. A soldier’s training: every reaction so tightly controlled. You might be almost as fun as Derek.”

And Stiles couldn’t just stand here acting useless while his evil alter ego taunted his dead friend’s dad. He took a jerky step forward.

“Where the hell is Derek?”

He was still staring at the train car so he was the first to see the movement, the shift in the shadows along the door. A sharp, warning noise escaped his throat, but then the figure moved out into the moonlight.

“I’m here,” Derek said.

And he was.

Since Scott had hung up the creepy/hot voyeuristic phone call, Stiles had been steeling himself to discover a whole array of terrifying things when they found him: half-dead-Derek, totally-dead-Derek, Derek with missing limbs or his insides dangling out like some slasher movie victim, or just curled up in a corner, half-crazy from mental torment. But the Derek that stood in the doorway of the train car, 12 feet from literal pints of his own blood, seemed totally and nerve-wrackingly normal.

“You’re… there,” Stiles echoed, nonplussed.

There wasn’t even a hole or any blood on his pale blue shirt from when he’d been stabbed. His jeans, while worn to the point of shredding in places, didn’t have a drop of blood on them, and it took Stiles a few seconds to decide that either this was some kind of alternate reality, bizarro-land Derek standing in front of him, or he’d changed into some old clothes he’d left behind from when he lived here.

And Stiles was seriously considering the Bizarro-Derek option because… He’d _changed clothes?_ Not only was he _not_ dying, but he’d had time to rethink his wardrobe? While, what, an invisible Nogitsune floated around outside the train car, taunting him?

Derek’s eyes skated down Stiles and back up, and there was something strangely open about him, strangely vulnerable, and Stiles wanted to come up with something clever or thoughtful or even just _useful_ to say but his throat felt tight and by the time he could drag in a fresh breath Derek’s gaze had already slid away to Scott. Stiles glanced over as well, shooting his friend a puzzled look, but Scott was busy setting his shoulders and staring Derek down with an expression that looked downright suspicious.

“What’s going on, Derek? Where’s the Nogitsune?”

And just as Derek had magically appeared on request, so did the demon, stepping from the train car and falling to a stop at Derek’s elbow. It still twisted up Stiles’ brain to see a copy of himself standing around, doing things he wasn’t telling it to do, and in an odd moment of confusion, Stiles felt his own stance shifting to mirror  _its_ movements.

Its arms were crossed as it hovered at Derek’s side, and Stiles had just enough time to think _wait, something’s wrong there_ before Argent's bolt released with a twang.

Time actually seemed to slow as it strafed through the air, and the demon caught Stiles’ gaze, its eyes blazing fearlessly, lips quirking. It did nothing to avoid getting impaled, and that was probably a really bad sign, wasn’t it? That it wasn’t even worried enough to try moving out of the way… And then Derek’s hand was lifting, a blur of motion, and snatching the bolt from the air an inch from the Nogitsune’s head.

Stiles felt like the earth was wobbling under him again.

Derek’s eyes scanned across the demon’s face, thoroughly, like he did when he was checking one of the pack for injuries. And there was a hint of victory in the way the demon held Stiles’ eyes, chin lifting, before it turned and and sent Derek a grateful look. And that desperate vulnerability flickered back into Derek’s eyes and _god_ did they just dart to demon-Stiles’ lips?

(But no, he was checking for injuries. And injuries could be anywhere, even on someone’s lips, and that thought was the only thing that would keep Stiles sane right now… except why the hell should Derek care if the Nogitsune’s damn mouth was injured, because…)

Stiles’ arms were wrapping tightly across his chest, and he knew it looked nothing like the demon-him’s casual stance now because he felt like he was holding his own guts from spilling out onto the floor.

Because this was… this didn’t… why was he looking like… they were supposed to be…

“Derek,” and his voice was definitely coming out too loud and too high and enunciating way too much. Did he always sound this shrill? “What _the_ _hell_ is going on?”

The arrow snapped in Derek’s fingers. The Nogitsune’s shoulder twitched, brows lifting in a way that seemed to say 'don’t look at me. It’s your problem, deal with it.'

And as bizarre as it was to be so casually dismissed by his own alter-ego, it made even less sense that Derek was looking to it at all.

Except that… the demon’s shirt was too big. And once Stiles noticed it he couldn’t _un_ notice it – the way the sleeves hung too long over its hands, half-covering them, or the way the body of it fell loose across its frame. Exactly the way it looked when a girl came in to school wearing her… wearing her _boyfriend’s_ …

Stiles mind blanked out for a few blissful seconds, and when he came back to himself Argent was repeating, much less frantically, Stiles’ Very Important Question.

“What’s going on here, Derek?”

Derek’s eyes had squeezed shut at some point, like the question was confusing him, or something inside his own head was confusing him, before he dragged in a rough breath. When he opened his eyes he ignored the two men questioning him, instead letting his gaze fall to Scott, expression open and honest.

“I know you came here to help me, but you don’t have to. Everything’s fine.”

Stiles felt a laugh bubbling up because things were definitely _not_ fine, but he clamped down on it because the demon’s expressionless eyes had slid from Derek back to Stiles, and Stiles wouldn’t give it the satisfaction of seeing him break down. Not again.

Scott’s jaw was working the way it did when he was desperately trying not to start shouting, but it was Argent who spoke up again, voice deadly even.

“What did it do to you, Derek?”

Derek’s eyes went from Scott to Argent, and Stiles felt a rising frustration that Derek was looking everywhere but at him. Because how could he justify standing there next to his doppelganger, catching arrows for it and lending it shirts and… doing other things. Probably almost definitely other things. And he wouldn’t even _look_ at Stiles?

“It’s not like it was before,” Derek said quietly.

“Before?” Argent echoed, dropping the crossbow to the ground and drawing one of his guns instead. “You mean when it infected you with such blind, consuming rage that you tracked me down and tried to burn me alive?”

Derek’s hand clenched, shoulders rolling, eyes sparking brief flashes of pain-regret-anger-conviction and it was wrong so see him so animated, to see every emotion rippling through his frame like this. It was like whatever big, extra-thorough Derek filter usually lived in his brain had packed its bag and made a blind run for Vegas, leaving behind a raw, exposed nerve for everyone to see. He twitched and shivered with each new emotion, and Stiles’ hand itched to reach out and touch his shoulder, to try and soothe him, steady him… but the demon’s hand was already lifting, dragging firm and rough down Derek’s arm.

Derek caught the hand, clenched around it, and some desperate part of Stiles waited for him to shove it away… but no. He was holding tight, clutching it like a lifeline as he steadied his gaze at Argent.

“You’re not hurting him.”

 _Him_. Like it was a person. Well, it had lived inside Stiles’ head for weeks, and he could definitely confirm that it was _not_ a person. Argent was grimacing.

“It’s a killer, Derek.”

“We’re all _killers_ ,” Derek snarled, teeth turning fanged, eyes gleaming bright blue, and he dropped the demon’s hand, shifting to stand between it and Argent like he’d be willing to catch a bullet for it too if he had to.

“This thing is different. You’re not thinking clearly.” And even though Argent didn’t know the story behind Derek’s blue eyes, he didn’t seem to believe that Derek had a hint of evil in him. Stiles was starting to decide he really liked this guy, as intensely scary as he sometimes was. Maybe he was just intensely scary enough to knock some sense back into Derek. “The Nogitsune kills for pleasure. Kills to amuse itself. You knew that a few days ago. We talked about it, remember?”

“You… you said you’d be willing to kill Stiles if the Nogitsune did too much damage.”

And he was still talking, still acting, like Stiles wasn’t even in the room with them, and it was reaching the point of seriously pissing Stiles off. Stalking forward a step, lifting one hand to wave sharply in the air, he snapped:

“Well I, as Stiles, officially approve of that sentiment. What the _hell_ , Derek?”

Finally, Derek’s eyes fell back on him, fading from blue back to green… and as much as he’d wanted it a second ago Stiles didn’t know if he could handle the raw emotion suddenly focused on him. He stopped short, arm flopping bonelessly back to his side, the breath going out of him as he was hit with a tsunami of _desperation doubt guilt loneliness longing_ … and so much more, too intense to describe, too overpowering to do anything but fall headlong into and hope never to hit the bottom…

He might’ve let out a soft sound, and Derek might’ve made a small movement toward him, but then a shadow came between them, blocking the sight of those eyes, and Stiles squeezed his own shut and remembered how to breathe. When he opened them again Scott was standing between them. And Stiles didn’t know whether to be grateful or seriously pissed off.

He didn’t _need_ protecting.

Which, ok, was totally untrue since everyone in this room could shred him alive in five seconds flat, including Chris Argent. But that hadn’t stopped him from diving headfirst into danger before, and he didn’t need Scott jumping in front of him like a bodyguard now.

Not for this. Not for _Derek_.

Derek seemed to share the sentiment, closing in on Scott, and Stiles could hear the wolf taking hold as he snarled “ _move_.”

“No way. I’m not letting you near him while you’ve got an evil rage bug or whatever in your head.”

Stiles inched to the side but Derek’s attention was locked on Scott now – blue against red, and he was bristling, shoulders rolling, and a moment later he’d launched himself forward.

The Alpha was smaller but faster, and when Derek slammed into him he rolled with it, flipping them both until Derek was pinned under him. The victory lasted about a second before Derek’s open palm hit Scott in the face, making him reel back.

“That’s _not_ what this is,” Derek snarled, shoving the still-dazed Scott off him and going into a crouch.

Blinking brown-again eyes, blood dripping from his nose, Scott matched his stance.

“Then what is it, Derek? Why are you acting like this?”

“Because I _feel like it_.”

It could’ve sounded petty, childish, but the way Derek said it, it was like… like he couldn’t help feeling it. Like he’d never felt this much, this powerfully, before. And the way Derek’s eyes had been screaming, how could any of them doubt it?  Whatever had been done to him this time, it hadn't brought out his rage.  It had brought out his _everything._

The Nogitsune’s eyes were gleaming, and Argent looked like he was trying to decide whether he should bother trying to shoot it with his gun or make another attempt with the silver bolts in the crossbow.

And it was all so stupid because this should’ve gone differently. Derek should be standing with them right now. Fighting the enemy that had infiltrated Stiles’ mind, that’d kidnapped Lydia, blown up the police station…

“Derek,” Stiles snapped, “it _killed Allison._ ”

Everything went so silent so fast that Stiles fought the urge to make a sound just to make sure he hadn’t gone randomly deaf. Argent wasn’t looking at his gun anymore, Scott’s shoulders had slumped, and Derek… Stiles almost didn’t want to look at Derek. Because if he did and Derek didn’t care… if he was really that far gone…

Or if he did care, and his eyes were bleeding _that_ emotion the way they’d been with everything else tonight…

But he needed to know. He finally forced himself to look over, but Derek wasn’t looking at him. He’d pushed himself back to his feet and was staring uncertainly at the Nogitsune.

It inclined its head, one shoulder twitching upward.

“Well, technically an Oni did, but… yeah. Pretty much.”

Derek took a slow step toward it, dreamlike; another, more firmly, and by the time he reached the demon he was moving so fast that Stiles barely saw the fist moving as it cracked across the creature's jaw. It fell back three steps into the side of the train car and Derek followed it forward, slamming his fist into a second time, grabbing it by the collar and hoisting it up as it started to stumble. It didn’t seem to mind, smirking up at him through bloody teeth (and oh, _that’s_ what Stiles would look like if he were a total deranged psychopath. Good to know). Derek lifted his hand a third time, claws extending, arm tensing to stab straight into its chest...

And then the rage bled away, and Derek released the demon with a halfhearted shove, and turned to face Argent.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I know what it is to lose family.”

Understatement of the century. _Stiles_ knew what it was to lose family. He’d lost his mom and he’d barely survived it.

The two men in front of him had lost everything.

And so there was no one in the world who would understand better when Argent lowered his gun, met his gaze evenly, and said:

“Then let me kill it.”

Derek hesitated, shivered faintly. Eyes drifted down briefly, searching.

“I understand that you want revenge, Chris. You want him dead.” His head shook, gaze flicking back up. “But I don’t.”

“ _Why_?”

He shrugged, and there was no anguish in his eyes now, only brutal honesty.

“I lose everything. This is what I have.”

The Nogitsune made a soft, tutting noise, licking the blood from its teeth and stepping forward.

“That’s touching, Derek.”

His shoulders rolled, like he hadn't just said something completely devastating.

“It’s true.”

“I know.” It smiled faintly, fingers going out to trail along his hip. Derek’s eyes slid shut. “And believe me, I love it.”

“ _Stop_ it.” Before he registered his own movement Stiles was darting forward, skirting Scott’s belated grab for his arm, getting right in the demon’s space and shoving it. It was stupid, thoughtless, _visceral._ The creature's lips were quirked as it stumbled back, in that unbelievably frustrating, knowing smile that never seemed to go completely away. It held Stiles' gaze unflinchingly... and this was it, it was gonna kill him, this was how Stiles was going to die.

But he had other things to worry about, turning and grabbing the front of Derek’s worn blue sweater and shaking it. (The shirt moved, Derek didn’t.)

“This is crazy,” he snapped. Derek’s eyes were still shut, his stance unreadable. Where had all the overflowing emotions gone? “You’re being crazy. You don’t lose _everything_. I mean, ok, maybe your track record’s not the greatest. But you know what’s _not_ going to help? Hooking up with a freaking killer demon.”

Finally, Derek’s eyes fluttered open, and Stiles steeled himself for another barrage of tortured emotion. He wasn’t sure how to react when the look that hit him instead was soft, warm, and… what was that? _Happy?_

And Stiles suddenly recognized the true danger of the infection running through Derek, because when Derek’s lips twitched they weren't sarcastic or bitter or cynical or self-deprecating, or any of the Hale Smiles that Stiles knew so well. This was warm, light, sincere.

_Because I feel like it._

Because Derek felt like smiling, so he did. And for a split second, that was everything. That was all that mattered. There nothing else floating around in his head, weighing that emotion down.

This, just in this moment, this was what Derek might have looked like if he’d grown up in a normal home. If he hadn’t been orphaned at seventeen, or betrayed, or beaten and tortured more times than Stiles even wanted to think about. And Stiles wanted to hold onto that expression forever, even as he knew he should reject it because it was wrong, it wasn’t really Derek, it was demon magic messing with his head.  But… god, it was making him _happy._

And Derek was reaching forward, grabbing the back of Stiles’ neck and tugging him a stumbling step closer and—

 _Oh god_ , Derek Hale was hugging him. He’d officially tumbled into Bizarro Land. Stiles’ hand was still between them, clutching Derek’s shirt, and he could feel his own heart pounding through his ribcage. And was Derek’s heart racing too? Or did werewolf hearts just naturally beat faster than humans’? Had he read that somewhere?

He couldn’t think straight, not with Derek’s hand clasping the back of his neck, fingers shifting, caressing just slightly, the other arm wrapped not-quite-crushingly around his waist. Stiles was melting away into a soft gooey little mush puddle – goodbye world, this was _actually_ the end. And that was before Derek pressed a lingering kiss against his forehead, tilted Stiles' chin to look into his eyes, and breathed,

“I love that you care, Stiles.”

He couldn’t get air. Was this actually happening?

Because holy shit, he’d thought brooding Derek was hot. This was… captivating.

He needed to say something important, now, while he had Derek’s attention. Something meaningful, something that would change everything.

What came tumbling out, soft, fast, and desperate, was “Derek, you’ve got to come back with us. Ok? We’ll… we’ll get Deaton to help you, like he did before. This isn’t you.” It _wasn’t him_. He’d die for acting like this when he got back to normal. Probably kill everyone who’d stood witness to it, too. It was demon magic; Stiles couldn’t let himself enjoy it. Couldn’t take advantage of it. Couldn’t act like the goddamn Nogitsune. “You don’t really want to be like this.”

Disappointment flickered through Derek’s eyes. That Stiles hadn’t said something else; that he didn’t understand?

The hand fell from Stiles’ face.

And no, wait, no he was taking it wrong, Stiles had _said_ it wrong. It wasn't that Derek wasn't... That’s not what he meant. But Derek’s eyes had clouded and the hands that had been holding Stiles were shoving him away. He stumbled, his own hand losing its grip on Derek’s shirt, and he would’ve hit the ground if Scott hadn’t been there to grab him, steady him.

The Nogitsune made a soft, satisfied sound.

“Well, I hate to leave in the middle of such a fine little drama, but it’s almost dawn.”

“And what, you’re a vampire now?” Stiles snapped, throat feeling tight. Derek’s eyes were shooting daggers, and he couldn’t find a way across the ditch he’d just dug between them. He should have said something else. Why hadn't he said something else?

Why wasn't he saying it now?

Argent spoke up, and there was nothing left in his voice that was careful or neutral.

“He’s scared to stand in front of us without his Oni lurking in the shadows.”

The Nogitsune smiled lightly.

“No good playing the general when your troops have turned to dust. Derek, am I leaving you with your… rescuers?”

_Yes._

“No.”

“Derek…”

But Derek had turned away, and Scott’s hand was on Stiles' arm like a vice.

“Alright then. Christopher, condolences about your daughter. I can honestly say there’s a part of me that was very fond of her.”

Scott’s grip tightened, whether because of the demon’s words or the fact that Stiles was jerking as hard as he could to get free, he didn’t know. Scowling, Stiles spun to Argent.

“Can you freaking shoot it, already?”

The man gritted his teeth and raised the gun, but with literal puffs of smoke a wall of Oni were suddenly standing between them. Like nothing had happened, the demon continued brightly.

“Scott… don’t worry, we’ll chat again soon. And tell your girlfriend –- you know, the new one -– that I’m looking forward to seeing her again too.”

And ow. _Ow._ That was definitely gonna bruise. Stiles made a sharp, pained noise and Scott released his death-grip, face pale. And Stiles was focused on his friend and the pain in his arm and he didn’t see the last jibe coming, which he really should have.

“And Stiles…” The demon’s hand was on Derek’s shirt now, the same way his own had been seconds before. Derek's jaw was clenched but when the demon pressed their mouths together he fell into the kiss eagerly, moving from angry to hungry and desperate like he’d forgotten he had an audience the second their lips touched.

He probably had.

But there was no way Stiles was forgetting. Every sound, every movement, was burning into his brain in a way he knew he’d never be able to scrub clean. Because it was _hot._ And it sucked. And Stiles’ mind was already working in overdrive, wondering _if I’d just leaned in, could this have been me?_ Or was he just the one who got the rolling eyes and the forehead kisses? And the frantic, moaning, hungry mouth kisses were something special reserved for demons who sapped out Derek’s emotional control with evil magic bugs?

A faint whine escaped his throat and the demon pulled back, breathing heavily, trailing his nails down the rough stubble on Derek’s face and sending a lazy smile Stiles’ way.

“Don’t worry about your friend. He’s in _very_ good hands.”

There was a heartbeat where Stiles physically _felt_ his soul withering up, and then Argent breathed something that sounded like “screw it” and started firing off rounds. The Oni had swords drawn and were blocking at blinding speed less than a second later. Scott snarled, grabbed Stiles’ arm, and jerked him backward before launching himself into the fray.

Past the chaos of battle, Derek was watching the action, following the Oni's movements like he wanted to dive in, himself. But then the Nogitsune leaned in to breathe something against his ear, and he gritted his teeth, nodded tightly. An Oni went sailing through the air and Stiles dodged out of the line of fire, and when he looked back toward the train car, Derek and the demon were gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's it for this section! Some new POVs, as well as writing around chaotic Derek, which was both fun and tricky. I guess chaos is just hard to plot for. Who would've guessed?
> 
> Days to write, seconds to review. Feedback is love.


	2. Chapter 2

****Derek’s soul was a mosaic of conflicting nerves all the way from the rail yard, snapping between focused calm and frantic emotion. For long stretches he’d run silently, before snarling without warning and slamming the demon into the nearest solid object.  And there was never any way of knowing whether a hot mouth or a fist would be crashing into the Nogitsune almost until it was gone.

They were both fast, savage, desperate, and tasted like battle.  Both left the demon’s skin aching for contact as Derek jerked away as fast as he closed in and went back to moving.

And then a moment later he’d be back again, hands grazing and clenching across the demon’s skin, desperate for an anchor, desperate to wound.

The demon devoured the chaos, could have gone on forever like this, but the human voice inside eventually reared up, let out a breathless laugh.

“I get it, you’re mad at me.”

Derek’s too-sharp teeth grazed over its shoulder, nipping bites in its flesh, tearing at the borrowed shirt – second of the night ruined, if anyone was keeping track.

“I wanna fucking murder you.”

“Oh, but that’s not even a little bit true, or else you would have. Tried, anyway.”

It leaned to capture Derek’s lips again, but he pushed himself back, eyes going distant.  Back toward the rail yard.

The demon sighed, dragging itself off the stretch of wall and smoothing down the rumpled, oversized shirt.

“They’re not going to kill anyone, Derek.  I told you, we just needed them to guard our exit.”

“They killed Allison _._ ”

“Oh come on.”  It smiled, light and fond, moving to circle Derek, get back in his line of vision.  “You didn’t have any love for Allison.  You couldn’t stand the way she divided Scott’s focus, the way they reminded you of your past mistakes.  She hated you for killing her mother, for revealing the truth about her sweet Aunt Kate.  You’d barely gotten to tolerating each other.”

Derek’s hands clenched.

“She didn’t deserve to die.”

“Most likely not,” the demon agreed with a shrug, arms crossing.  “Most people don’t. It happens anyway.”

That finally drew Derek’s eyes back: lost and desperate and so exquisitely tortured, and the demon had to physically stop its next breath from shuddering out because _mon dieu, god, kami-sama,_ fuck. Had anything ever been as beautiful as those slowly shattering eyes?

If the demon hadn’t taken Stiles as host, would it still be standing here?  Feeling this?  _Wanting_ this?

It thought so.  Thought it would at least be intrigued by Derek.  It thought the centuries-old draw to chaos was more important than a twisted echo of a child’s year-old crush.

And this might have been the first time the Nogitsune had ever felt the need to distinguish between the two.

Derek’s eyes were dragging fast and frantic across its face now, trying to pull together whatever tired, moral argument he felt he should be clinging to.  But the infection was still sparking through his mind, burning out all the unnecessary filters people imposed on themselves and leaving nothing but raw honesty behind.

“I care about Scott,” he growled, finally.  “And Chris.”

“And they’re both still standing, aren’t they?  Come on, Derek.  Would I kill someone you really loved?”

Those eyes flashed, anger thrilling deliciously through the air between them.

“ _Yes_.  And you’d sit back and smile while it tore me up.”

The demon stepped close and traced a finger down Derek’s rough jaw.  He flinched but didn’t retreat, lifting his chin and watching the demon warily.

“Mm… I love that you understand me so well.  Except I wouldn’t sit back.  I’d pull you close and taste every bit of that sweet torment until you weren’t sure what you were feeling anymore.  But Derek, this is very important, alright?  So listen.”

Slowly, achingly, the demon leaned closer.

“If I was going to kill any of them,” it said, holding the wolf’s wary gaze, “I would do it in front of you.  I would put on such a glorious show of destruction that your life’s previous tragedies would seem like a runny nose in comparison.  You are the single most important thing in my life right now, Derek Hale.  And if I were going to destroy you, you would deserve nothing but the absolute pinnacle of my efforts.”

It leaned in one last inch, placing a lingering kiss on Derek’s stiff mouth.  Pale eyes followed the movement, unblinking.

“So you don’t have to worry about my Oni killing any of them, alright?  I may be a trickster, but I won’t lie to you.”

There was a pained flutter of emotion – hope and revulsion and lust and relief – and when the demon leaned in again Derek kissed back, lips slow and unsure, eyes wide and wary, hand moving up to clench the front of the demon’s shirt like he wasn’t sure how close he could stand to be, but knew he didn’t want to let go.

He would come around.  He’d understand eventually.

Neither of them ever needed to be alone again.

.-

Stiles blinked, his vision refocusing as they pulled to a stop at the edge of the street.

“We’re at _my_ house,” he said slowly, startled.  Scott shot him a look, wide-eyed and wary.  He’d been doing that all ride, ever since Stiles had handed over his keys without a fight and gone to huddle in the shotgun seat while Scott shared some last words with Chris Argent.

Stiles had noticed the looks; hadn’t bothered reacting.

What the hell was there to say?

He felt numb.

“Yeah,” Scott said, softly.  Using his extra-gentle voice, his ‘let’s comfort the wounded animal before Deaton starts stabbing and sewing at it’ voice.  “I figured you might want to rest up here instead of my place.  And here.” He reached into the back seat, pulled forward a duffel with a worn pillow sticking out the top.  “Brought this along just in case.”

It was such a simple, stupid gesture but it cut through the numbness like a goddamn Oni’s sword.  Left Stiles’ chest aching and his eyes prickling embarrassingly, and he grabbed the duffel and turned away fast, pushing his way out of the car.

He couldn’t be like this.  He had to focus.

…But what the hell was there to do?

Scott got out more slowly and took his time circling the car, giving Stiles a chance to gulp in a few deep breaths and blink back the tears threatening to spill out.  He didn’t comment on the way Stiles’ arms were death-gripping the bag across his chest or how every third breath or so still shuddered uncontrollably, as he led the way to the door and used his own key to let them in.

And this was stupid.  This was so stupid.

Before tonight he’d never expected anything from Derek.  He’d barely even qualified what he felt as attraction.  Just a general appreciation of – or even annoyance at – the way the jerk’s body and face were pretty much the most perfectly sculpted things he’d ever seen.  And so what if he’d been left fantasizing a few (dozen) times about the way it felt when Derek slammed him against a wall and leaned in, or shoved him out of danger’s path, or stood, snarling, between him and an out of control Beta?  All that stuff just kind of begged for a bit of teenage dreaming, didn’t it?  He’d probably feel the same way if… if _Jackson_ had done any of that stuff.

And Derek was annoying, too.  The way he’d smirk and snark like he was so goddamn superior.  The way _nothing_ was ever easy with him.  The way he’d act so unbearably frustrating that Stiles would be ready to write him off altogether, and then turn around and show just a flash of how brave and wounded and _human_ he was…

And worm his way a little further into Stiles’ own wounded heart…

Damn it.  Damn Derek.

Damn this whole fucking month.

He didn’t know how long he’d been spacing, didn’t even remember dropping the bag or following Scott into the kitchen, but the microwave’s beep jolted him back into the world enough to feel the damp trail on his cheek, and he dragged a hand across his face, blinking fast.

Scott was taking a mug out of the microwave, sticking another in, and rummaging through one of the cabinets for a box of tea.

“I could use a different kind of drink.”  Stiles’ voice came out thick and rough, and then he laughed because…

This was so stupid.

 _He_ was so stupid.

“God, Scott, I’m such a jerk.  This whole thing, this whole thing is so…” stupid.  But he couldn’t bring himself to choke out the word.  “I should be taking care of you.  I should be making you tea.  I mean, I didn’t lose anything.  I never had… this is…” He stopped, cut himself off before his voice broke.  Drew a breath.  “ _You_ lost—“

“No.”  Scott cut him off, putting the cup down sharply on the counter.  Maybe, Stiles thought as Scott’s hands clenched into white fists, so he wouldn’t break it.  “Not yet.  We can’t… talk about that yet.”

Stiles swallowed, drew a breath.  It came in easier this time.  It was easier to focus on his friend’s pain than his own.

Because Scott deserved to be hurting.  Scott’s pain was real; it mattered.

Not like this ache in Stiles’ chest, born of nothing, bruised by nothing.  Because that’s all he’d ever had.  _Nothing_.

_Stop it._

_Stop thinking about it._

_Stop being so goddamn selfish._

“Scott,” he said, pushing himself slowly off the edge of the doorway. “You can’t just… compartmentalize the pain away.  You’re not—”

The microwave beeped again, making Stiles jump and blink at it.  Scott went over – carefully controlled movements – and took out the mug, filled another, and stuck it in.

Stiles followed the action, worry for his friend mounting.  Because that was the third mug, and last he’d checked, there were only two of them.

Was this some kind of coping thing?  Compulsive microwaving?  He knew that people baked or cleaned sometimes when they were…

“Scott––”

The front door opening cut off his words.  Stiles spun, ready to… well probably dive out of an assailant’s way and hope Scott could handle it.  But Chris Argent was coming through the door instead, striding past him into the kitchen and dropping his keys on the counter like he belonged there.  His brows rose at Stiles’ startled look.

“Scott told me to come right in.”

Stiles glanced toward his friend, who was busy steeping a tea bag in the second cup with focused precision.

“Scott didn’t tell me you were coming.”

The wolf in question turned, placing the two cups in front of Stiles and Argent.  Stiles had chamomile tea; Argent had black.

It seemed like a significant distinction. 

Stiles eyed the cups, then looked back up.  The world snapped back into a focus he hadn’t seen since the rail yard.

“Uh, no.  No way.”

The microwave beeped a third time and Scott pulled the last mug out, adding a black tea bag to his cup as well.

“Stiles, it’ll be better if you don’t—”

“ _No_ ,” he repeated, pointedly nudging his mug away.  “No way.  If you’re going back out, so am I.”

“You were practically catatonic on the way here,” Scott pointed out, reasonably.  Stiles grimaced.

“Yeah, well.  You know, it’s dawn.  And none of us have gotten any sleep.  And I've been pretty sickly, battling post-possession aftershocks and all.  So sue me, I was tired.  Give me your tea, or better yet, I’ll brew up some coffee for all of us and I’ll be good to go.”

Scott didn’t dignify that with more than a set of briefly raised brows.

“Ok.  And maybe I was also a little…” Stiles’ fingers dug against the tabletop.  His tongue dragged out, licked his lips.  He couldn’t.  He couldn’t lie to Scott, even with someone else in the room. “…totally devastated.  Because that sucked, ok?  That whole… _that_.  It sucked.  Seeing that thing that screwed with my head, screwing with _his_ head…” The tears were prickling his eyes again – frustrated, angry, embarrassed – and he tilted his head back, blinking them away. “But when the hell have I ever sat something out just ‘cause it’s hard?”

And then, because he wasn’t a coward, he _wasn’t_ , and it didn’t hurt that much anyway, he flicked his gaze from Scott to Argent.

And the gentle understanding in the hunter’s eyes almost floored him.

He looked back at the counter, forcing his next breath not to shake.

“Dude,” Scott said, quietly. “It’s not about what you’re willing to handle.  It’s not safe for you.”

“I did fine with the Oni.”  Dodged and ducked out of the way while the others fought, mostly.  But he hadn’t been in serious danger or anything.

There was a short pause while Scott and Argent exchanged looks.

“It’s… not the Oni,” Scott said finally.  “Or the Nogitsune.”

“Stiles,” And now Argent was talking to him, gently, and he just wanted to burrow a hole for himself and crawl into it forever.  “You understand that, whatever that thing did to Derek, he has no filter right now.”

“I can handle that.”  They were silent again, and he looked up.  Scott was staring at his tea, a resigned set in his jaw.  _Not safe,_ he’d said.  “You think he’s gonna _hurt_ me?”

“We don’t know what he’ll do.” Scott was still looking down.  “That’s the point.  I mean, if he attacks one of us, we can fight back.  You know?  He attacked me already.  If he dives at you…”

Stiles looked away, pressing his lips together.

“I can’t sit this out, Scott.  If he hits me… I’ll take the punch.  I mean, he’s not a killer.”

Argent’s cup clinked hard on the table, making both teens look up.

“ _Every one_ of us in a killer,” he snapped.  “In flashes, in seconds.  In that quickly fading impulse to pay someone back or just shut them up in whatever godly way possible.  Don’t tell me you’ve never had the urge to beat someone senseless, or throttle them, or run them over with your Jeep.”

It was too much like what Derek had said at the rail yard.  Stiles hadn’t liked it then, liked it even less now.  He raised his chin, meeting the man’s gaze.

“Yeah, I’m a teenager.  So like, every day.  But I’d never actually do it.”

“Exactly,” Argent replied, leaning both hands on the table, holding Stiles’ eyes.  “Because you can filter it.  Can repress the urge and it’s gone a second later.  You can laugh about it afterward.  Derek doesn’t have that ability.  If he wants to hurt you, even for a second, he’ll do it.  If he gets angry, impatient, frustrated, he’ll do whatever needs doing to make that feeling disappear.”  Stiles’ mind went, against his will, to all the times he’d made Derek angry, impatient, frustrated.  It was practically the foundation of their dynamic. “Scott, the Nogitsune, even I to an extent, have a chance of fighting Derek off until the impulse goes away.  But you don’t have that ability.  He’ll tear into you without a thought, without holding back… and he’ll regret it a second later.  Maybe it’ll destroy him.  But none of that will be any use to you when you’re bleeding out in the dirt.”

Scott’s mug shattered in his grip.  He turned away to the sink, cursing.

“Wow,” Stiles said.  “Ok.  Thank you, Mr. Argent, for that vivid imagery.”

“You need to understand how serious this is.”

“I’m aware.”  He’d been inside the demon’s head.  He knew more than anyone how dangerous it was. What it could do.  What it could make others do.

“Then you get why you have to stay here.”  Scott had turned back to Stiles, shirt spattered with tea stains and the odd, ceramic grain.  His expression as broken as the mug in the pale, post-dawn light.  “You have to promise you’ll stay out of this.  I can’t worry about fixing it if I’m worrying about you, ok?”

It kept coming back to him being human.  The weak human who needed to be sidelined, protected.  Even though all this was his fault.

And now he was hurting Scott too, and Scott was hurting enough already.  He gritted his teeth, forced himself to back down.

“Fine.  Ok.  Whatever.  Look, the important thing is to find Derek, so…”

Scott stepped forward, looking a little too hopeful.  Forced hope.  He reached out to squeeze Stiles’ shoulder.

“We’ll save him.  Ok?  You just have to trust us.”

He couldn’t handle their eyes anymore.  The too-bright hope, the pained, pitying looks… especially from these two.  Especially today.  _Let them go,_ Stiles thought.  He’d deal with this his own way.

“Fine _._ Alright.”

“So you’re gonna stay, and rest?”

Stiles hummed out reply, vague and distracted. If he could track Derek down, if he could just knock some sense into that thick head...  God, if he could bring them back to that moment when Derek had smiled at him, and just say the _right thing_ this time… maybe…

Or maybe Derek would rip his throat out like he’d promised to do so many times.  Hey, maybe the Nogitsune would throw a curve ball and just kill Stiles, himself.

But he had to try.  This was his fight.  The Nogitsune was wearing _his_ face, damn it.  Had been inside his head.  Had used his hands to kill people. 

…Was using his face to mess with Derek?

Maybe.  Or maybe it was just preying on Derek’s loneliness, his stupid guilt complex.  His belief he didn’t deserve better.  Either way, Stiles could fix it.  Could ~~_smack some sense into_~~  reason with him.

He had to try.

Scott’s eyes were too knowing as he stared Stiles down.

“You’ll stay _here_?”

“Scott, what am I, a dog?  ‘Here,’ ‘stay.’  Just… go find Derek.”

Scott let out a relieved breath, and Stiles felt a twinge of guilt.  He hadn’t _exactly_ lied.

“Ok, good, because your dad should be here any minute, and—”

_Shit._

“Wait, what?  You called my _dad?_ ”

Argent sighed.

“Of course I did.”

Like it should have been obvious.  And maybe in Grownup World it was.

But Stiles had expected more from Scott.  Expected him to know better, to talk Argent out of an idea like that.

Because his dad had way more than enough to worry about already.  Because Stiles’ supernatural crap had been enough of a burden on the man, and making him sit around the house, wringing his hands and playing the awkward sick nurse would bring up even more bad memories to add to what was already a towering mountain.

And Stiles didn’t know if he could take it.  The idea of sitting here doing nothing was bad enough without having to explain to his dad _why_ he was sitting here doing nothing, and why his eyes kept tearing up uncontrollably, and why Derek might be dangerous all of a sudden…

“He’s going to stay here with you today,” Argent continued, totally oblivious to how much damage he’d caused. Or not caring. “And make sure nothing gets into the house.”

“Or out?”

The man inclined his head.

“Well, we don’t have to worry about that, do we?  We have your word you’ll stay.”

The sound of a truck pulling up outside made Stiles’ eyes squeeze shut.  He wasn’t prepared to deal with this.  He hadn’t even seen his dad since yesterday, since before Allison.  And so much had happened since then.  It felt like ages had passed.

Felt like seconds.

“I remember, you know,” he said.  Because it was tearing at him, because Argent had to know, because he wouldn’t be able to say it once his dad came in.  “Everything I did as that thing, once it finally took over.  It’s hazy, it’s muddled, but I remember. And when that fly went into Derek…  Isaac and Aiden and Ethan, they were so easy.  Their rage was so black and white.  But Derek was more…” He felt bile burn his throat, clenched his teeth.  Forced his eyes open.  “Was more _fun._   Because as much… deep seated rage as he has toward your family, it was battling against this real respect he felt for you.” Argent was the one looking away now, and Stiles paused until the man drew in a slow breath and looked back.  “Are you planning to kill him?”

Argent sighed.  His eyes were so tired.

_He’d lost his daughter last night._

“He asked me the same thing about you, you know.”  Argent shook his head.  “Only if I have to.”

“You don’t have to.”  Stiles’ gaze went from him to Scott, standing amongst the shards of broken china.  “ _Don’t._ ”

.-

“Why here?”  Derek followed the demon slowly into his own loft.  He’d been here just a few hours ago, the bloodstained couch and bits of torn bandage reminders of recent activity.  But the space felt strangely alien to him now, too wide and open, bare.  Empty.  It felt like a stranger’s home.

It felt _abandoned_.

Did he really live like this?  Was this all he’d leave behind when he died – a bloody couch, a few books on demonology and a bed?

It had always seemed so practical.  Don’t get attached to things; don’t put down roots.  Be able to throw everything you owned into a duffel and run in five minutes flat if you had to.

Derek faltered just inside the doorway, while the demon pulled the door shut and strode past him into the loft.

“Simple subversion of expectations, Derek.  If you’re known to be on the LAM, the last place people will look for you is your own loft.  I've also used this space before; they’ll expect me to be more creative. Which is exactly why I shouldn’t be.  Dear Peter’s off on a Very Important Mission of self-discovery, if I’m not mistaken.  And our scents are all over the area, leading to and from the building in all directions; it’ll confuse any attempts they make to track us.”

Derek watched as he… _it,_ moved across the Spartan room, trailing careless hands over every beam and object it passed, filling up the space, marking it like it owned it.  His mouth felt dry, eyes trailing after the fingers.  He followed it slowly forward.

“You thought this through.”

“I’m a trickster, remember?  Outwitting other people’s pretty much my MO.”

It reached the table and paused.  Stiles’ chessboard still lay there among the research books, and the demon’s lips quirked at the sight of it.  It lifted a stray white pawn, trailing and weaving it between the pieces until it came to rest in front of the black king.

“And speaking of subverted expectations, Derek, that was a _heartwarming_ little moment with my former host, back there.”

The pawn tapped the king, toppling it.  Derek shivered.  The demon turned to face him and, head tilting, tossed the pawn. Derek caught it, frowning.

“It was so sweet,” the demon continued. “So _soft_.  I thought you didn’t want soft.”

The memory sparked and burned in his mind.  His hand clenched, the wooden piece buckling in his grip.

“Shut up.”

The Nogitsune ducked its head, grinning, and crossed the room back to Derek in stalking steps.  Moving in close and catching Derek’s eyes in a way it felt impossible to break free of.

“No regrets, Derek.  Learn from your mistakes and move on.  You’ve been lusting after a _child_.  A naïve little boy; and trust me, I know.  I’ve lived with him, in him.  He can’t begin to give you what I can.”

Part of Derek wanted to flinch away.  Part of him wanted to deny or fight, or _laugh_ , because this was all so ridiculous.  When had the war for Beacon Hills’ continued existence turned into this muddled mess over Derek’s failed romances?

 _Or just_ _leave._ Part of him always wanted to leave, but when it time came to move he just couldn’t pull together the willpower to do it.  Too much of him was clinging to this like a lifeline.

And now again he found himself caught, grounded and floating, in those eyes, as the demon’s hands trailed up his arms, claiming him like they’d claimed the loft.

Then something shifted subtly: the lifeline falling away, becoming something else.  The _demon_ became something else. _  
_

Arms going to loop his neck loosely, its body – usually crowding so close and possessive and _confident_ against Derek’s – hanging back, shifting and unsure.

“But I can be soft if you want,” it breathed.  And everything about its manner had changed.  Eyes going wide and unfocused.  Lips parting, tongue sliding to wet them, mouth staying open and chest heaving like it was suddenly hard to get air.

“Derek…” The voice a little high, a little breathless.  The arms tugging faintly, restlessly, on his neck. “Please…”

Derek was reacting: the broken pawn tumbling to the floor, hands going to grip his sides, whole body buzzing as he practically lifted Stiles’ light form, tugging him closer.  The eyes were wide, nervous, wondering and wildly hopeful… and they repulsed him as much as they captivated him.

He couldn’t.  He couldn’t deal with the trust there.  How many people were dead from trusting him?

And then his mind caught up, and his grip tightened on the demon’s waist, nails biting.

_Not Stiles._

“I thought you said you weren’t going to lie to me,” he snapped. It smiled, the wild hope burning out from those eyes.

“That’s not _lying_ , Derek.  It’s bedroom games.”  Its grip tightened around his neck and it tugged itself forward, breaking out of Derek’s hold with hardly an effort and ghosting their bodies together.  Mouth going to Derek’s ear, lips dragging.

“Do you want me to be Stiles for you?  You can dominate the fragile, oh so earnest human.  Make him feel things he never imagined.”  Its words were coming out soft and needy, its whole body shifting and surging restless. Hips rolled forward without quite touching, chest barely brushing Derek’s with every ragged breath.

“Show me what to do, Derek.  Teach me.”

Derek shoved the demon hard, eyes blazing.  Shuddering the desire away.

“I don’t want you to be him.”

The Nogitsune tilted its head, rubbing a hand across its bruised chest.

“Well, I guess I have to believe you.  The question is _why_?”

There was no coherent answer.  Just instinct – fear, shame, revulsion. 

All Derek could do was drag together a ragged “Be _you_.”

Its lips curled.

“I can do that.”

.-

Scott’s hands were death-gripping the armrests so hard that Chris could hear them collapsing. His eyes stayed carefully on the road, and he tried not to question the wisdom of bringing Scott along on this.

He was still just a boy.

Seventeen.

_Just like—_

But he was also an Alpha werewolf, and Chris wouldn’t be able to handle this alone. 

And he had no one else left to ask.

Exactly one hundred feet before the intersection, he flicked on his turn signal.  Slowed to fifteen miles per hour, made the turn, neat and smooth, accelerated.

“We might have to kill him,” he pointed out, clipped and even.  “If he chooses to protect it, to fight us.  This is too important to let personal feelings get in the way.”

Scott was silent for so long Chris thought he might be ignoring him.  Then…

“Maybe personal feelings will be what fixes it.”

He really was just a boy. Naive, soft.

If it came to a hard choice, Chris would have to be the one to make it.

A pained whisper in his mind told him this was all too much. Too much, too fast. More than anyone should have to deal with. Then years of training kicked in, locking the voice down.  He could deal with grief later, guilt later.

There was a dead fly on the windshield. Chris flicked on the wipers, watched it scrape away.

He'd trained all his life to make the hard choices.

He was prepared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so I totally lied to a few of my reviewers last chapter. There was no Derek/Stiles cuteness in this time. There's some up ahead though, I promise! Whether it lasts or not, though...
> 
> Let me know what you guys think. :)


	3. Chapter 3

It brought Derek to the breaking point before releasing him.

They battled their way through sex, tearing at each other as much as they gave each other pleasure, leaving behind wounds that would scar them for hours. It was punishing, satisfying, fulfilling in a way Derek had never imagined it could be.

Before, it had always felt perfect at first: daggers lurking under the surface to tear into him when he least expected it. Now he felt the daggers in full force. He felt the punishment and he wanted it. He’d _earned_ it. And what else could happen to him now, because he already knew the best and the worst the demon had to offer. It was a monster. It wanted him.

And that was real.

Better than perfect.

Because if it felt too good on the surface, that meant it was destined to break you apart in the end.

.-

Derek woke up to the sound of his phone buzzing.

He stared at it, vibrating on the floor beside his discarded jeans, but he didn’t move to answer. He’d been surprised to find it had survived being thrown at the rail yard, was more surprised it was ringing now. What could anyone possibly want to say to him? He’d basically declared war on everyone he knew.

And for what?

The bed was empty beside him. His was the only heartbeat in the building. Only the sweet ache of barely-healed bites and bruised bones assured him that the whole morning hadn’t been a…

A what? Fantasy? Nightmare?

_What had he been thinking?_

…He hadn’t been. He’d just been feeling. And with the demon gone, those feelings were bleeding away fast.

A surge of regret hit him and he was moving, grabbing for the phone, wincing and fumbling it when his forearm protested being put to use so suddenly. He stared, distracted, at the aching limb. It was still a wreck: faded purple and green marking the skin where the demon had gripped his arm to the breaking point. He could still feel the fractured bone under the flesh.

_Nightmare._

Except…

Derek had never enjoyed pain. He could handle it, he figured sometimes he deserved it, but he’d never craved it. Never burned for it.

Now his hand went out to ghost over the tender skin, tracing over the bruises wonderingly before clenching hard. His breath hissed, eyes sliding shut, echoes of flesh and heat and pleasure-pain rippling through him. The demon knew how to do things Derek couldn’t even explain, to twist agony into desperation, to turn a curse into a ragged plea for more. To give him a mix of everything he needed and everything he deserved.

_Fantasy._

He was such a fucking mess.

The phone had stopped ringing. Derek opened his eyes and stared down at the still, black object, hand falling away from his arm.

It was probably better that he hadn’t answered.

But when a text buzzed in a second later, he was reaching for the phone again right away – hope and guilt winning out. Pragmatism wasn’t really an option for him right now.

And he still wasn’t sure how he felt about that. How he felt about… feeling. Being _forced_ to feel, forced to act on those feelings. In the moment it was liberating, in the aftermath it was…

He didn’t know. He couldn’t think that far ahead or back. Having your emotions bubbling through to the surface didn’t help when you had no idea what your feelings were.

And anyway, right now it didn’t matter. It wasn’t one of the pack texting.

He stared, nonplussed, at the name at the top of the message.

**Me**

Derek knew a few people narcissistic enough to feel they needed no introduction, bold enough to take it upon themselves to add their number to his phone. But he had no doubt about who’d programmed this one in.

After all, he already had Peter’s number.

nvr took u 4 a heavy sleeper.  
come 2 warehouse where u saved  
  snakewolf. have a present 4 u

Derek eyed the message, wondering if he’d guessed wrong. For one thing, he would’ve expected a thousand year old demon to write in full sentences, even if said demon did look like a teenager. (And when the hell had it gotten its hands on a phone, anyway?)

But there was no one else it could be, and as that knowledge sank in, so did the rest of the message.

He doubted anything the Nogitsune counted as a “present” could be good.

 _“You don’t have to worry about_ my Oni _killing any of them…”_

He bolted to his feet, cursing.

…What had he gotten the others into?

.-

Everything hurt.

And, despite appearances, that wasn’t just Stiles being melodramatic. So maybe he was lying on his bed in the middle of the morning, shades down to block out the sunlight, listening to the low wails and thrums of alternative rock… but that was beside the point.

Because everything freaking hurt.

 _Literally_.

It had hit him again about half an hour after Scott and Argent left – a dizzy spell that’d almost knocked him over. And now every muscle, nerve, bone, organ, pore… every teensy little cell inside him was aching. Moving hurt. Breathing hurt. He was exhausted, but he couldn’t get comfortable enough to sleep. His mind was racing too much to let him, anyway.

He was starting to think maybe it’d been a good idea to stay home.

Except that he was being _completely useless._

He scowled at the shadowed ceiling.

(Scowling hurt.)

But he couldn’t stand doing nothing. At least he should go to his computer, do some research. Or call Scott and check in, or something.

Groaning, he dragged together a massive effort of will and pushed himself out of the bed… or tried to. His foot tangled in the edge of a sheet and sent him tumbling, elbows first, to the floor. The impact rattled through him. He’d barely muttered “ow” before the door slammed open and the silhouette of his dad stood there, gun in hand.

“Stiles, what’s happen— oh.”

Stiles grinned through gritted teeth, staying where he was on the floor. No need to test out if he could stand without wobbling in front of an audience. Especially when the audience already seemed so on edge.

“Hey, Dad. Yeah, no demonic fox monsters here. Just your kid, being clumsy. Not knowing where the floor is.”

“Right.” He holstered his gun, shifted and hovered awkwardly in the doorway, the way he did when he was embarrassed for Stiles but didn’t want to let on.

“Dad, really. Seriously. I’m good.”

He knew immediately he’d protested too much. His dad stopped examining the edge of the doorframe, eyes scanning over him instead.

“Stiles.”

“Yeah?”

“Get off the floor.”

Stiles pressed his lips together. He could already tell that wasn’t happening.

“Uh… what?”

Feigned deafness – not exactly a comeback for the books. His dad crossed the room slowly, crouching in front of him.

“Stiles, can you get off the floor?”

He forced a laugh, breaking off when he inhaled too sharply and started coughing.

“Dad, what kind of question is that? Maybe I’m just—yeah, ok then.” He cut off when a hand went out to his forehead, smoothing back his hair and falling away again.

“Stiles, you’re sweating _and_ you’re freezing.” Hands grabbed his armpits, hoisting him up (he tried to scrabble his feet under him and help out, but they didn’t do much more than flail helplessly under him) and place him back on the bed.

“You seemed alright earlier. How long have you been feeling like this?”

Stiles shrugged, and regretted it. His arms were aching, his chest was aching… you get the point. Everything was aching.

“It was better before. I mean, I guess I felt kind of wobbly a few times last night, but I figured it was…”

He’d figured it was from having his heart ripped out and stomped on repeatedly by his evil doppelganger. From seeing buckets of Derek’s blood spilled all over the ground. From being a total emotional wreck.

But no, thinking back, maybe it was the whole ‘slowly dying, post-possession’ thing too. …Was that better or worse?

“I’ll call Melissa, get her to check you out again.”

He was already starting to get up, and Stiles grabbed his arm. His hand refused to grip properly, catching and clinging at the fabric of his dad’s sleeve.

“Dad, no. Seriously. She checked me out already, more than once. This isn’t something modern medicine can cure.”

“ _Then what can_?”

.-

“What the hell’s going on?” Derek snapped, striding through the vacant warehouse.

The building hadn’t changed much in the past seven months. There were still signs of the pack’s battle with the kanima if you knew where to look for them: bits of crumbled wall, a hint of rust-colored stain on the floor where Jackson had lain dying, changing. Healing.

The Nogitsune stood over the bloody remnant, pale skin unmarked as though Derek hadn’t clawed and battered it just as badly as it had, him. Its arms were behind its back, eyes gazing down.

“Do you know,” it mused as Derek approached, “a tiny part of Stiles was disappointed when Jackson woke up? He’d never admit it, but part of him had thought Jackson dying might be his chance, his opportunity to finally start a relationship with the ‘love of his life,’ Lydia.” It looked up, a trace of a smirk dancing in its eyes. “That _kind_ boy – the loyal one, the good friend – stood here hoping his classmate was dead, that you were a murderer, so he would have the slightest shot of ending up with the girl. Aren’t human beings fascinating?”

Derek tried not to let the words rattle him. Stiles’ crush on Lydia, his (mostly one-sided) rivalry with Jackson… None of this was exactly new information.

There was a scent on the air, distantly familiar, but it didn’t smell like any of the pack.

“Of course, we all know you’re a killer, Derek.”

He swallowed past the gibe, the phrasing catching his interest. He slowed to a stop six feet from the demon.

“Do ‘we all’?”

It shrugged, hands still linked behind its back.

“I ran into some friends of yours this morning. They were causing all kinds of trouble, asking around about you in all the wrong places. Might’ve taken them _days_ to track you down. I told them I could reunite you.”

Scott, Chris.

 _Stiles_.

But the scent in the air was like old sweat and spices. Familiar, but not any of the pack.

“ _Mon loup,_ don’t look so nervous.” It closed the distance between them, pausing not quite within arms’ reach and pitching its voice low. “You’re going to love me for this. I didn’t get a chance to wrap them, but you can tear them open anyway.”

What was that supposed to…

Then the fox was falling back, arms going over its head, its voice going loud and young. Fearful.

“Guys, you can come out!”

A second later half a dozen shapes were falling out from behind the crates. Hunters, dark haired and dark eyed, armed with AKs and shotguns. Not all of them were familiar, but enough were.

“ _Severo_.” Derek’s teeth bared and the hunter laughed. Echoes of torture – electrical jolts, sharp blades of every kind cutting into him – rattled through him. He hadn’t seen the man since Mexico. He’d never expected to see him again.

The demon still stood between them, hands raised like it was surrendering. Eyes dancing as it moved slowly backward.

Derek scowled.

“What is this?”

It was Severo who answered, still chuckling.

“It seems you have been betrayed, wolf. This boy realized the mistake of getting mixed up with your kind, and came to turn you in.”

The demon’s expression screwed up into one of mock regret, its voice going soft and pained.

“I’m sorry, Derek. But werewolves are _evil_. You have to be stopped, for the good of the town.” He was laying it on thick, though only someone who’d known Stiles a long time would feel the sarcasm dripping off each word. The hunters clearly didn’t, nodding and chortling as they moved forward, closing in on Derek and letting the demon fall behind them, out of the line of fire.

“A boy after my own heart,” Severo smirked, clapping the demon’s shoulder as he passed. “Now, wolf, we have some unfinished business to discuss. You and your uncle killed quite a few of my boys escaping from us last time, but I’ll be willing to let that go if you tell me what I want to know.”

“Right,” Derek’s face went stony, hand clenching. The burn ran up and down his bruised arm. “ _La loba._ ”

“Exactly.”

“And I’m sure if I tell you where she is, you’ll just… let me go, huh?”

“Oh,” the hunter shook his head, stalking forward another step. Behind the armed men, the fox’s hands and false innocence dropped. Its head tilted, dark eyes taking on a low, hungry burn. “Not anymore. I’m a reasonable man, _chingado_ , but I’m not stupid. You give us the she-wolf, I kill you quick. I don’t hunt down your _puto_ of an uncle. You don’t wanna talk? We make it slow.”

Derek knew what the demon wanted. He knew what _he_ wanted. There were six guns trained on him, six hunters… but that was a ghost of a thought, flitting across his mind and away just as quickly. He was already moving.

He was going to murder Severo, or get killed trying.

The first bullets were already firing as he dropped low to the ground, features shifting, and sprang up again.

The burn of buckshot skimming his side was nothing as he launched himself toward the nearest hunter on his left. One swipe knocked away the man’s gun, the second tore open his throat. Derek spun them both as the blood sprayed over him, using the man’s still-sputtering body as a shield against the next round of gunfire, before tossing it at the next closest hunter and leaping away.

Severo was spitting orders in rapid-fire Spanish, signaling for the men to spread out. Derek snarled, diving toward the hunter still flailing beneath his friend’s corpse. A twist of the neck, and he went still.

He recognized this man. He’d cut patterns into Derek’s flesh when he was bored. Said he liked a canvas that kept refreshing itself.

He should have killed him slower.

A bullet slammed into his shoulder and Derek was moving again, strafing around the hunters as concrete shredded and sprayed up around him. There were four left. He circled them and they clustered together, ducking around each other to keep him in their sights, trying – how noble – to push the demon behind them, out of the line of fire.

He could run; he had them pinned together in the center of the warehouse.

But they’d tortured him for days, cut off Peter’s finger.

_They wanted to kill Cora._

He feigned a leap and their guns aimed up to follow the movement. A fatal mistake for one of them, as Derek ducked low and barreled himself straight forward instead. He knocked the closest hunter to the ground, claws digging into the screaming man’s chest. The heart pounded against his fingers and he dug deeper, watched the man choke, the light fade from his eyes. The sight of it was captivating.

A shotgun pressed against the back of his skull.

“Bad move, _bastardo_.”

He growled low. If he moved, he was dead.

But he was so goddamn _angry_.

He tensed to spin, but with a shuffle of movement and a snapping sound, the pressing metal was gone.

The demon stepped around Derek, gripping the gun comfortably, as the body behind them crumpled.

“I thought you _weren’t_ going to kill him fast,” it said, musingly, to the corpse. As though that lie had been enough reason to kill him. It fired a shot, carelessly taking down another startled hunter, and sent Derek a smug look. “Really, Derek? You only got _three_?”

Only Severo was left standing, shifting his aim between Derek and the demon like he couldn’t decide who to target first. Derek pushed himself to his feet, side throbbing, shoulder screaming.

“I had them,” he gritted, knowing he hadn’t. “Would fight better if I could think straight.”

“I’ll let you think straight when you stop trying to repress your instincts. Anyway, you know you love it.”

Derek’s veins were singing. He realized he was smiling.

Severo seemed to decide that the fox was the bigger threat, shifting his aim to its chest.

“What the hell is this?”

The demon rolled its eyes, dropping its shoulders, looking just like Stiles every time he thought the people around him were being especially dense.

“Hmm… Well, it seems you’ve been betrayed.”

Severo snarled and fired off a shot. Derek’s heart clenched. He twisted to shove the demon out of the line of fire but it was already gone. Moving at speeds faster than Derek could track, shifting like a ripple of smoke to stand at the hunter’s elbow. It reached out, seeming bored, and grabbed the man’s arm, twisting it backward until it snapped. The man screamed, weapon dropping.

“ _Sensible_ Derek,” the demon said, kicking the gun to skitter into a bloody corpse, “would have run just now. Would have gone to get backup, and left his enemies still alive. Sensible Derek wouldn’t be standing here with his tormentor at his mercy. You don’t want to be sensible, Derek.”

It reached out again, grabbing the back of Severo’s neck and kicking out his knee, shoving him to the ground.

“Now, tell me you like my present.”

The air tasted like blood and death, and Derek’s next breath came out a growl. He felt halfway repulsed. _Almost_ halfway.

His feet carried him forward, closing the space between them, moving past still and still-gurgling bodies. The crippled hunter on his knees, groaning, barely registered as Derek grabbed a handful of dark hair and drew the fox into a deep, slow kiss. Their tongues raked against each other, the demon’s taste – Stiles and ash – mixing with blood before he drew back.

“You killed my enemies for me.”

That soft, honest fondness was back in its eyes, the same fondness Derek had glimpsed in the rail yard, in occasional flashes between heat throughout the morning. A hand drifted out, hovering over the wounds in Derek’s side, not quite touching.

“No one hurts you but me.”

It held Derek’s gaze, dark eyes promising any number of twisted, wonderful things. Promising more pain, promising protection, promising that if Derek followed it into the dark, he would never regret it. And standing here, the hunters lying dead all around him, how could he doubt it?

“You’re more powerful than you were,” he said, barely hearing his own words.

Its lips twitched.

“And getting stronger.” A hand cupped his cheek, thumb trailing across Derek’s lip. “I’m not dying on you, Derek.”

The words clawed open every wound inside Derek, and the demon knew it. It looked away, smiling, while his eyes burned.

“Now,” it said after a few obliging seconds, twisting away from Derek and facing the grimacing, groaning hunter. “What should we do with him?”

The sight of Severo’s broken form reignited a host of wrathful feelings. There was a hungry heat in Derek’s chest, just like when he’d been infected with rage, when the idea of burning Argent to dust had been all he could think about.

He wanted to see Severo suffer. He wanted to please the demon.

“I say we start with his fingers.”

.-

It turned out maybe modern medicine knew some stuff after all.

A handful of Advil, some trusty Campbell’s chicken soup, and a long, skin-searing shower later, Stiles felt… well, he felt like he had the flu, maybe, but not like he was dying. The aches were slowly ebbing away, and he couldn’t tell if it was the drugs actually working or just that whatever was going on with him was happening in seemingly random jolts and flashes.

Now was probably the time to get some shut eye, but Stiles’ mind had been racing too much to give that much thought. He’d been sitting in front of his computer for the past twenty minutes, researching frantically… and pretty fruitlessly.

There was so much mythology out there about kitsune (and more than one redirect to useless anime fansites), and no way of knowing what to actually believe. “Heaven” kitsune and “void” kitsune. Myobu versus nogitsune. The myobu followed sets of rules laid out by their god, Inari. The nogitsune followed no rules but their own.

Kitsune were tricksters, but bound to their word once given. Could nogitsune be held to that? Could they be held to anything? Kitsune, just like foxes, tended to seek out a mate: to search for someone to share their long lifetimes with. Just like the Nogitsune had told Derek.

But nothing could tell Stiles what he really needed to know.

And he wouldn’t have a hope of sleeping until he knew.

Before he could talk himself out of it, he was grabbing his phone and calling up a little-used number, tapping a long line of impatient X’s into the Google search bar while he waited for an answer. It only took three rings, felt much longer.

“Kira. Hey, sorry to call but… are you home? I need to talk to your mom.”

.-

The scent of blood hung heavy in the air again as they crossed the path between warehouses.  If Scott could go a few dozen years without smelling so much as a papercut after this, he’d be happy.

He grimaced, signaling to a familiar building up ahead. Argent nodded, drawing his gun and taking the lead as they crept forward.

People had died here.

And Scott could smell Derek and Stiles – the thing that _smelled_ like Stiles - too. The scent of his friend and Derek and death ran together in a way that left him physically fighting nerves and nausea.

Scott realized he hadn’t breathed in about twenty seconds, and knew he must have been looking sick when Argent glanced back at him and paused, frowning. He forced in a gulp of air and his lungs burned again, but he felt a little steadier on his feet. He nodded, and they kept inching forward.

He heard them before he saw them. Pained, ragged breaths of something wounded. Stiles’ voice ( _not_ Stiles’ voice) murmuring something Scott couldn’t make out, laughing. And Derek – tense, angry, _furious_ – snarling something that sounded like “Who else is looking? Tell me, and I’ll end this now.”

There was another laugh, but it wasn’t the demon this time. This voice was low, gravely, and gargling with what Scott could only guess was choked blood.

“Why do you even care, _puto_? _La bestia plata_ … she’s clearly not what we thought to you.” The man gargled again, spitting. “Unless you monsters all roll around together.”

His words cut off with a scream – sharp and fast – and then Derek was growling “You’re sick. And seriously need to get your facts checked.”

“Not that it matters at this point,” Stiles – _damn it, not Stiles_ – added lightly. “How long do you think he could keep talking if we severed a lung?”

Derek huffed a breath, like he wasn’t sure whether to take the suggestion seriously or not.

“Well, he’d still have the other one.”

“Then go for it, wolf boy. I want the blood so thick in the air I can drink it.” There was a quick, satisfied sound – a press of lips and a hint of a moan – and then the demon laughed again. “Isn’t that right, Scott?”

Argent’s eyes slid shut, teeth gritting.

Well, so much for getting the drop on them.

.-

Now that Mrs. Yukimura was sitting in front of him, perched with perfect posture at the battered Stilinski kitchen table, Stiles was starting to think this had been an incredibly stupid idea.

“You didn’t have to come over.” He sat slumped in his own chair, legs crossed under him, feeling about five years old under her patient, ancient gaze. “Could’ve just talked on the phone.”

“Nonsense.” The woman sat with hands clasped in front of her, and for just a second he thought he caught a glimpse of nerves as they clenched and smoothed out. “You have questions about the Nogitsune. Anything I can do to help, I will.”

Which was maybe too little too late, now that she’d lost all of her tails and had her Oni ripped from her control. But Stiles had a hard time holding a grudge. Possession or no, neither of their hands were clean in this.

And she’d come over looking to help him. He just wished he had more serious questions for her.

“Yeah, I just… I need to understand some things. That thing was living in my head, you know? But I still don’t know a lot about it.”

“You believe if you understand it better, it might help you deal with what you did under its control.”

He grimaced, eyes flitting away.

“Among other things.”

“Then ask.”

His eyes strayed to the nicked surface of the table.

His dad had, after a few pointed hints and glances, left the pair of them alone in the kitchen. That made this a little easier. He didn’t know how much Mr. Argent had explained to his dad about last night, but his dad hadn’t broached the Derek Subject, and Stiles wanted to avoid that conversation for as long as humanly possible. Especially with the way things were now.

“Ok, it’s just… So you’re a kitsune.” It still felt weird to say, and he glanced at her and away quickly, at this woman who looked way too modern to have lived through World War II, much less a few good centuries before it. Kitsune were weirder than werewolves, they just were. “And the Nogitsune’s a kitsune. But you’re… you’re a person, right? I mean, you and Kira, you were both born in those bodies; you’re not possessing anyone.”

She breathed in slowly, and for a second he dreaded the answer. But then “That’s true.”

He nodded, relieved.

“Ok, but the Nogitsune needs to possess someone. Or be connected to someone, or whatever’s going on with me and it now. So is the Nogitsune a totally different species from you, then? If something’s true for a kitsune, it’s not true for a nogitsune?”

“As with all things, the specifics are significant in determining an answer.” Her tone was tinged with curiosity, and Stiles realized he was still avoiding looking at her. He forced himself to look back into her frowning eyes as she continued. “Nogitsune are more like our shadows. The basic forms and motions are largely the same, but many of the details differ.”

“Ok, so like…” he cleared his throat. He was going to do it; he just had to dive straight in. “I read that kitsune don’t like being alone. They’re drawn to finding a partner or a… um… mate. Having a family. And you know, that adds up with how you married Kira’s dad and all.”

She nodded, her brows now knit thoughtfully. This clearly wasn’t the direction she’d expected the conversation to go.

“A millennium is long time to be alone, Stiles. For anyone.”

“And for a nogitsune?”

It wasn’t a person. It was an _it._ It was a parasitic demon monster that thrived on causing chaos.

It couldn’t possibly want more out of Derek than to totally screw him over.

The woman—fox— _woman,_ was grimacing like she found the idea distasteful, and Stiles was already feeling better when she opened her mouth to answer.

“I… suppose it’s possible.”

And all the relief just dropped away.

“ _What_?” No, bad. Wrong answer. Stiles didn’t want that answer, hadn’t expected that answer. Didn’t know how to _deal_ with it. “How? It’s not even a person.”

“It’s not always the _same_ person,” she corrected, still sounding like she was discussing something that sat badly in her mouth. “It spends its existence stealing traits from the identities of those it possesses and incorporating them into itself. As long as the demon wears your face, Stiles, it will be your shadow as much as it is the shadow of a kitsune. Even after it moves on, echoes of you will remain inside of it, though less prominent. There were echoes of Rhys in the demon I faced while it possessed you... but it was also very different.  Very _you_.  The things that matter to you will matter to it, though its nature will twist how it interprets and acts on your… desires.” Stiles felt himself flushing, shrinking further down into his seat, and forced himself to sit still.

“So I’m seriously supposed to believe it cares about my friends? After everything it did to them?”

“They _matter_ to the demon,” she corrected. “It focused on them, out of all the people it could have tormented, because of their connection to you. Often, a nogitsune will take advantage of its host’s relationships to further its own goals.”

Like when it had used Scott to absorb other people’s pain, and then torn it out of him to feed itself.

And Derek? What was it getting out of that? Or was it enough to steal him away from the pack and feel the chaos of the group scrambling to recover?

“Ok, so that’s all evil scheming though. Manipulation. Just using what it knows about me to cause chaos.”

“True.” She sighed. “But you’ll learn as you grow – nothing is ever quite so simple as good or evil. The Nogitsune feeds on chaos. Its nature is to destroy, so it is often interpreted as evil. And it is certainly dangerous and needs to be stopped at all costs. But understand – it is using you and your friends to further its own goals, _whatever_ those might be. Sometimes those goals will be to destroy, to spread chaos or, as was the case with your friend Lydia, to gain an advantage in battle. But if its goal is to find a companion, something to hold onto in the lonely void of its existence… if that’s something you crave as well, and might focus the Nogitsune’s attentions in that direction…” She shrugged, eyes going to the window. “A millennium is a _long_ time to be alone.”

.-

Argent stepped into the open first, gun up and aiming. Scott took a breath to steady his nerves and followed.

A breath hadn’t been enough.

There were bodies everywhere. There was blood everywhere. And Derek was covered in it.

He was looking up at them with wild eyes as they came out, pushing himself unsteadily to his feet. He was a total mess – hair mussed and falling over his forehead, shirt torn up, skin pale with blood loss or exhaustion. There were blood spatters on his cheek, a fine spray across his shirt, and his right hand was so coated in red that Scott couldn’t see a hint of the skin underneath.

The demon was weirdly put together by contrast: dressed in another slightly oversized shirt but without a drop of blood discoloring it. It was smiling like this whole scene of destruction was a big private joke, and it actually looked healthier, less pale and gaunt, than it had the night before.

“Argent, really? Again with the gun? Even if you’re able to shoot me, how much do you think it’ll slow me down? I know your women did all the thinking in your family, but this is surprisingly uninventive.”

The hunter didn’t bother responding, firing a shot that the demon somehow dodged, flitting out of the way and making it look easy. It was just at Derek’s right elbow one second, at his left the next, pursing its lips and shaking its head.

“Useless, Chris. I’m faster than a speeding bullet.” It glanced to Scott, brows waggling, winking. “Going full on Superman.”

It was so _Stiles_ that Scott wanted to beat its face to a bloody pulp just to make it look different.

“Then we’ll figure out your kryptonite,” he snapped. It just kept right on smiling. And then Derek was moving, grabbing the demon’s arm and firmly tugging it to stand a step behind him. Like a human shield – for the demon or for them, Scott wasn’t sure.

“Get the hell out of here, Scott,” Derek’s voice was low and a little ragged. “This isn’t any of your business.”

There were corpses all over the place – bullet riddled, clawed up corpses. Argent was circling slowly to the left, scanning over the bodies for any sign of life. His expression didn’t look hopeful.

Derek was covered in the blood of the dead. And Scott was getting sick of Derek acting like the things he did didn’t matter to the rest of them. He stepped forward, eyes flashing red.

“One of _my_ pack running around _my_ town killing people? With a demon wearing _my_ best friend’s face? Yeah, actually I’d say that’s my problem.”

Derek’s bloodied hand clenched. For a second he looked angry, then surprised, then… resigned?

“ _Your pack_? Scott, I haven’t had a pack since I was a teenager. Boyd and Isaac and Erica… that was just playing house. They ran the second they really saw me. So did Cora. So did you.”

 _Do you think anyone would even miss you?  And who can blame them?  Everyone who gave a damn about you died seven years ago_ _._

The echo of the demon’s words on Derek’s lips stung just as badly as they had last night. So maybe Scott had been a crappy Alpha in some ways; maybe he’d let some things slip through the cracks. Derek had gone off the rails a little when _he’d_ become an Alpha; Peter had spent weeks terrorizing the town. Clearly there was a learning curve to this whole Alpha thing.

That didn’t make any of this ok.

“So, what? All this… this is what you are now?”

The man Derek had been leaning over was still alive, barely conscious. His hands were a gnarled mess of broken fingers, his right arm and leg bent at impossible angles, his face and chest cut open in long stripes by Derek’s claws.

Derek followed Scott’s horrified gaze, seeming a little startled for a second by his own handiwork. Then his shoulders smoothed out.

“What does it matter? These men deserved what they got.”

“No one deserves this.”

Derek laughed grimly, lowering himself to crouch over the gargling man and trailing a finger down a long cut in his chest, watching the man twitch and sputter at the fresh pressure. Scott had seen a lot in the past year, but Derek's expression as he ran his claw down that would was enough to send a chill straight through Scott.  Dark and bitter, pleased, vengeful.

“Some people deserve a lot worse.”

The demon was drinking in the sight of Derek’s breakdown, head tilting, licking its lips like it literally wanted to devour him where he crouched.

Derek’s hand went for the man’s throat, and Scott couldn’t take it anymore. He moved on instinct, stomping forward a step, features shifting, and _howled_. The roar of it echoed through the warehouse and out into the empty morning, rattling windows and boxes. Derek flinched, looking up, Beta eyes glowing blue, and Scott felt a brief flutter of hope. Maybe he’d gotten through to him, the way he had with Stiles.

Then Derek laughed.

“There you go, Scott. Finally learning to be an Alpha.” He paused, lips thinning out. And there was a hint of satisfaction, of bitter mocking as he added, “But you’re not mine.”

With a twitch of his fingers, he tore the man’s throat out.

And all hell broke loose.

.-

Stiles didn’t want to deal with anything, think about anything.

Ever again.

After the talk with talk with Kira’s mom, Stiles’ brain was even more muddled than it had been before. At least earlier, he’d been able to just be pissed at this whole situation – at the demon for being a freaking demon, at Derek for falling for its obvious lies. But suddenly it was more complicated than that. If the demon was his shadow, had his feelings, or some version of them, that meant... what? It actually cared what happened to Derek? It might legitimately want to be with him? It was _lonely_?

Was Stiles supposed to feel bad for it now? Was he supposed to let Derek make his own choices and stay with the stupid apparently-not-totally-evil Nogitsune, if that’s what he wanted?

…Could it care for Derek better than Stiles could?

He gagged at the notion, at the pathetic desperation in it, and focused on dragging himself step by step back to his bedroom, waving off his dad’s continued offers to help.

“Dad, I’m good. I just need to lie down and die for a little while. I’ll come down for lunch in a bit, ok? We can talk then.”

And man was he _not_ looking forward to having a long talk with his dad about the kitsune’s visit. Or about anything.

‘Cause that would mean thinking about it, which he’d adamantly vowed not to do. It was officially Turn Off Stiles’ Brain time. Get Some Freaking Sleep and Worry About all this Crap Later-Possibly-Never time.

He made it to the second floor, lifted his arms in a brief victory pose for his dad’s sake, before making his way to his room, kicking the door open, elbowing it shut behind him and sighing.

Only then did he notice the ravaged, blood-covered figure sitting on the edge of his bed. His elbows were on his knees, hands – shaking slightly – clasped, and he was staring down at them, seeming dazed, until Stiles’ sharply drawn breath made him look up. His pale eyes pierced something deep inside Stiles, making him lean back hard against the door for support.

“Hey, Derek.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Derek & Stiles are finally back in the same room! But what happened with Scott and Argent, and where's the Nogitsune?
> 
> And more importantly, can Derek and Stiles finally manage a couple of angst free seconds?
> 
> Reviews keep me posting! Let me know what you liked or what you didn't, or whatever else pops into your head after reading. :)


	4. Chapter 4

They stared at each other, unblinking, as the world ticked on around them. There were distant sounds from downstairs: faint cluttering, the sink running. His dad cleaning up in the kitchen.

_His dad._

This was what his dad was here for. To stop exactly this from happening. He'd kill Stiles if he didn’t call for him, if he just let him stand around downstairs washing dishes while…

Stiles’ eyes were painfully dry. He blinked hard, a surge of irrational panic hitting him the second his eyes closed. But when they shot back open Derek was still there. Sitting at the foot of Stiles’ bed, looking like he’d gone seven rounds with the circles of hell and hit back as hard as he’d taken. His dark hair was hanging in sweaty strips over his forehead, his bloody, blue Henley torn up with bullet holes and claw marks.

Stiles was still pressed against the door like some weak-kneed damsel in a chick flick, but as much as he resented his own comparison, there was no way in hell he was going to try straightening up right now.

Because he was sick. Not because of the whole…

“So you’re sitting here.  In my bedroom. In the dark.” He paused, trying desperately to dig up something that wasn’t completely obvious, and landed on: “I think my window was locked.”

Apparently that didn’t warrant an answer either.

Which, ok. Whatever. Apparently whatever he might want to keep out of his room could just break the lock and climb in anyway.

Not that he wanted to keep Derek out. Damn it, he _should_ want to keep Derek out.

Derek’s eyes were scanning across Stiles, moving fast from his head to his chest and back again, flickering soft to desperate as he pushed himself to his feet and stumbled across the room (limping? Yeah, he was definitely limping, left leg drenched in dried blood and dragging like it hurt too much to bend). Part of Stiles felt like he should dodge out of the way, heard a rush of warnings in his head about danger and lack of self-control and how he should stay far, far away from Derek for his own good.

Oh, and there was the whole “Derek was possessed by a chaos bug” thing too.

But he wasn’t moving anywhere and Derek was grabbing him a second later, tugging him effortlessly away from the door and pulling him into a bone-bruising hug.

Stiles let out a surprised, strangled noise – pain and relief (Derek was alive, Derek was here, Derek was _hugging him_ and that was definitely worth a few bruises) – and returned the gesture and then some, grabbing fistfuls of Derek’s shirt and holding on for dear life.

Because he was too sick to stand on his own, not because…

God, who was he kidding?

“Hey, big guy,” he breathed, trying to hold onto any level of composure while his body betrayed him, flushing and heating and trying to grip even tighter, as if he could stop Derek from running off again if he just kept a feeble, human grip on the bloodied clothes.  “I missed you too.”

“I had to see you,” Derek breathed, and his mouth was against Stiles’ ear, all grazing lips and hot breaths and dipping his head against Stiles’ neck just to _smell him…_ and did Derek even realize what he was doing? Probably not, dazed and frantic as he seemed.  He was just happy to see Stiles, his packmate, his possibly-almost-friend; no idea what he’s doing to Stiles’ already wrecked nerves just from being so close.

“You weren’t at the warehouse.” Derek was still talking, hand gripping his nape now, fingers raking against his scalp, constantly moving. Like he was trying to make sure every piece of Stiles still existed, whole and intact. “Had to make sure you were…”

...What, _alive_? Make sure his new boyfriend’s Oni hadn’t killed Stiles back at the rail yard?

A flash of bitterness almost ruined the moment.  _Almost_.

Because Derek still cared. No matter how fucked in the head he was, he had still dragged himself here on a barely-functioning leg to check on Stiles. Was hugging him like he was the only thing in the world that mattered. (Derek Hale hugging. Hugging _Stiles._  He still couldn’t wrap his head around it.) 

How could he possibly feel bitter right now? He was floating.

Until his brain connected the rest of Derek’s words (stupid brain, couldn’t it just let him enjoy this for five seconds?) and he pulled back enough to scan the Beta’s feverish face.

“Wait, what warehouse? Did you see Scott?”

Derek pulled back as well, hands going to Stiles’ cheeks, thumbs running down the sides of his face like it was the most natural thing for him to do. And it should’ve felt weirder. Scarier, maybe, because Derek was only halfway Derek right now, living on a hair-trigger. He could snap Stiles’ neck with the barest flex of a muscle... 

But it wasn’t scary. It wasn’t even weird. It was comfortable, soothing, safe.

Not that it didn’t send shivers through Stiles for a whole ‘nother reason.

“You look awful.” Said the pale, blood-covered, clawed-up and almost definitely bullet-ridden werewolf.

And Stiles knew he looked like crap. He  _felt_ like crap and he knew exactly who to blame for it. But Derek was touching his face and looking at Stiles with such a soft expression that he couldn’t bring himself to let out the snarking accusation that was just itching to spring free. Because Derek might side with the demon again, might leave the way he had this morning… and Stiles didn’t know how well he’d cope with that a second time.

“Well, you know, long night.” His voice almost cracked, going for a nonchalance that no part of him felt. “You look worse.”

Derek leaned in, touching his forehead to Stiles’, and Stiles felt a laugh bubbling up; half disbelief, half sheer nerves because… _god_ his life was crap if this felt like a highlight. Derek didn’t seem to mind, his lips ghosting a tired echo of Stiles’ grin…

And Derek really did look bad. Here Stiles was, possibly dying, and Derek was stealing his thunder by looking like he could be dead already.

Of course, Walking Corpse Derek was still unfairly hot and his lips were _right there_ , and Stiles was suddenly starting to appreciate why Scott had never been able to get a damn thing done around Allison, because images were flashing, fast and hot in Stiles’ brain of Derek moaning against the Nogitsune’s mouth -- the demon that looked like Stiles’ mirror image -- leaving Stiles sick and needy, and he had never wanted anything so badly as he wanted to know how Derek’s mouth would feel against his _right now_...

A whine was building up in his throat but he swallowed it down. Because he couldn’t. Even if he thought… if he thought Derek would _want_ … which he _didn’t know…_

One of them needed to be thinking, and if Stiles was good for anything in the pack it was thinking. (Well, thinking and a well-timed sarcastic comment, but he didn’t see that being much use right now.) And there was blood on Derek’s face, on the hands running down Stiles’ cheeks.  His skin was sickly pale, and there were dark, hollow rings under his eyes, like he’d lost more blood than even he could handle. And he’d been limping.

How long ago had he gotten hurt? Why would he still be limping?

And there was a question still nagging at Stiles, a question Derek hadn’t lied about but had pretty pointedly not answered.

_Wounds from an Alpha take longer to heal…_

“What the hell happened, Derek?”

Derek’s hands dropped from Stiles’ cheeks to his shoulders, the smile falling away. His eyes were going pained again, wounded. (And Stiles didn’t want that, god he didn’t want that and he didn’t want to _cause_ that but he couldn’t just stand here enjoying this and pretending everything wasn’t still wrong. At least not until he had the answer he needed.)  

Stiles’ grip on Derek’s shirt tightened, caught on a clawed tear, a bullet hole.

“Derek, _where’s Scott_?”

.- .- One Hour Earlier -. -.

Derek tore out Severo’s throat.

And all hell broke loose.

Chris fired off a shot that hit Derek a second too late, burning across his arm as he pulled away, hand dripping with blood and stringy tendons. The demon burst into motion even as Derek howled, a blur of color and movement flitting toward the hunter.

Derek scrambled to his feet – Severo’s neck still spraying blood behind him – and darted after. Something barreled into him before he’d taken three steps, and his head hit cement hard enough that his vision went crimson. He blinked dizzily, trying (failing) to roll away as something grabbed his shoulders, pinning him to the ground. Scott was straddling him, eyes red and teeth bared, snarling in a way that made some deep, instinctive part of Derek ache to stop fighting, to submit to the Alpha’s commands.

But Scott wasn’t his Alpha. He _had_ no Alpha. Scott had rejected him from the first second they’d met: refused to be brothers as Betas, refused to defer to Derek as an Alpha. He was alone, had been alone since Laura.

_That wasn’t…_

He groaned, panic forcing away the dizziness.

 _Damn it_ , Scott was focusing on the wrong threat.

He had to move, had to get free before…

Derek slammed one arm upward but Scott released his shoulder, catching the fist mid-motion. He grinned, baring jagged teeth, the wolf in Scott amused by its lesser’s attempt to best it. But Derek was already moving again, reversing momentum and slamming his other arm, claws first, into Scott’s chest. They bit in deep enough to make Scott reel back in surprise, release his grip, and the second his arm was free Derek backhanded Scott, knocking him away to the concrete.

 _“Derek!_ ”

Scott was already recovering: twisting, snarling and clawing at Derek’s leg as he scrambled back to his feet. Nails bit through Derek’s jeans easily and dug deep, raking down his calf as he jerked away and continued, stumbling, toward the demon. Toward Chris.

The Nogitsune had knocked Chris’ gun away and was lifting him slowly by the throat, squeezing. It could snap his neck in a second, but instead it stood there watching, head tilted curiously, while Chris choked, sputtered, and scrambled at his hip. Derek was less than a yard away when the hunter drew out a gleaming blade and rammed it into the demon’s chest.

Derek stumbled, seeing red again as the dagger sank in.

_Another Argent killing something he cared about._

He tensed to launch himself at Argent… but the hunter was still dangling in the demon’s grasp. The Nogitsune looked down, unimpressed, at the protruding hilt.

“Oh, Christopher, you continue to disappoint.” It wrapped its fingers slowly around the dagger, dragging it free with the barest hint of a grimace. Black smoke drifted from the wound, as dark as the blood clinging to the blade. The demon casually wiped the dagger clean on Chris’s jeans while the hunter began to sputter and choke in earnest. “Luckily, this will be the last time. And I suppose there’s some poetry in your dying on a blade, isn’t there? _Vous ne pouvez pas proteger votre famille; vous ne pouvez pas protegez-vous._ ”*

A slight curl of its lip was the only warning Derek had. He dove forward, snarling, grabbing the demon’s wrist and halting it just before the blade drove into Chris’s heart.

“ _Stop._ ”

He pushed himself between the demon and the hunter, bracing all his weight on his right leg as his left threatened to collapse under him. But that wasn’t important, and he held the demon’s gaze steadily.  It watched him with blank eyes, battle eyes, before releasing its grip. Chris hit the ground, coughing, not missing a beat before stumbling out of arm’s reach.

There was a bloody hole right in the center of the demon’s chest, and Derek’s hand went out to brush it wonderingly.

God, it had been right. It couldn’t die. It _wouldn’t die._

The demon’s features twisted – barely an expression, more a quick, assessing look. Its hand still gripped Chris’s dagger, Derek’s hand still gripped its wrist. He had no doubt it could pull away, or smoke away, or whatever it was Japanese fox demons did, but it didn’t.

“Let me kill him, Derek. He shot you.”

His blood-soaked arm burned in a long streak from the bullet… still burned from the nearly healed break. His abdomen ached, phantom pain from last night’s blade wound.

“You’ve done worse.”

The Nogitsune’s free hand went out to trail down the wounded arm, drawing up Derek’s wrist and pressing a soft, lingering kiss along the bloody flesh. His arm throbbed with the contact and Derek gritted his teeth, breath hitching. When it pulled back, its lips were dark with Derek’s blood.

“But you’re _mine._ ”

Every time it said something like that, it caught Derek off-guard all over again. He was _someone’s_. Someone wanted him to be theirs. Wanted to put up with the complete and utter disaster that was his existence.

Wanted to protect him.

Wanted to kill for him.

_It wouldn’t die._

And there was something so wrong with the way that triggered every animal instinct inside Derek. To snarl at it, to war against it. To fight _for_ it. To submit to it.

He was so goddamn tired of hopeless battles, of always coming up short, being one step behind, of losing everything. Being at war with himself. If he could just let go, destroy his enemies first, let the Nogitsune take up the slack where he fell short… _not care_ …

It had been so freeing to kill these hunters. To let loose, take revenge, and smile while doing it. His whole life could be that. He could take what he wanted, do what he wanted, rain chaos down on anyone who tried to stop him if he _just didn’t care._

The demon’s whiskey-and-smoke eyes drew him in.

He was starting to understand.

But there was a blur of movement behind it – Scott moving, circling warily.

_Scott was there._

_Scott wasn’t an enemy._

Derek blinked his way out of the demon’s eyes, tugged his arm free and fell to the side so he could look at the demon, Argent, and Scott all at once.

“I’m _mine_ ,” he snapped, because, if he knew nothing else, he knew that. “And I’ve got this handled. You don’t touch them.”

“It’s not that simple, Derek.” Chris’s voice was rough and grim, years of practice keeping any emotion from escaping with his words. “You just killed someone. You killed _all these_ _men_.” He paused, sighed just barely. “You’re out of control.”

The demon shifted forward and Derek threw his arm out to block it, turning to fully face Chris. The hunter’s lips were thinning. He had a new gun in his hand, and was lifting it steadily. There might’ve been a flicker in his eyes – pain, regret – but it was gone as fast as it had come.

Derek laughed, faint and humorless. How many times had they stood on opposite sides of a gun now?

“So you’re gonna kill me? Put me down like a rabid animal? Like a _Berserker_? I thought you didn’t want to kill your friends.”

Chris’s jaw was set.

“My friend wouldn’t have done this.”

This was stupid. It was so fucking _simple_ ; why couldn’t they understand?

“They _deserved_ it,” Derek snarled, and could feel himself shifting without his consent, could feel his teeth going sharp with rage like a fledgling Beta, feel his muscles tensing and hackles raising, feel the extra burst of power that came with his werewolf form.

“Derek,” Scott cut in, voice rough. His shirt was bloody from Derek’s claws, and he was moving around to the left like he thought he might stand a chance of getting the jump on the demon from behind. ...Even as he spoke up, giving up his position. The demon’s lips twitched, brows going up with a familiar, fond exasperation that should only exist on Stiles. Scott, oblivious to the demon’s expression, continued earnestly. “You’ve gone way off the rails, man. Think about what you just did here.”

Derek’s lips bared. He _couldn’t_ think. They didn’t understand. They couldn’t understand.

He didn’t want to hurt them. He just needed to have this. Couldn’t they just let him _have_ _something_?

There were reasons, he was sure. Distant, intangible reasons why they wouldn’t (couldn’t) back down. He remembered being where they were: hating the Nogitsune, wanting it gone at all costs. But that had been before, last night, a lifetime ago.

Every instinct was screaming that he couldn’t lose it.

“This is sick, Derek,” Scott snapped, waving his arm out across the warehouse to signal… everything. The corpses, the demon, Derek. “I don’t know if your brain’s been switched off or you just don’t care but you can’t do crap like this. You can’t _be_ like this. You’re dangerous to everyone.  And Stiles…” He cut himself off, wincing, like the line of thought physically pained him. And Derek’s attention was suddenly on the young Alpha with a hyper-focus, heart lurching.

“What about Stiles?”

Scott wouldn’t look at him. Chris’s face was stone, his aim locked on Derek’s head. In front of Scott, the demon crossed its arms, cool and expressionless. It had said the Oni wouldn’t kill them. He’d left them… he’d left _him_ …

“Scott, _what about Stiles_?”

Scott’s gaze snapped to him, hard and menacing in a way that had nothing to do with the Alpha gleaming on the surface, that was 100% pure protective best friend.

“Do you even care?”

Derek clenched his teeth, stalked a step forward. And his leg gave out.

He stumbled, wincing and fighting another dizzy spell as his side screamed, his injured arm slamming into the floor hard enough to make his vision go black for a second. Too many injuries, too fast. Too much blood loss. Even a wolf could only handle so much.

He pushed himself to his knees and growled, but must’ve looked like a total wreck because the rage had died out in Scott’s eyes. He was looking away again, bitter and frustrated.

“It doesn’t matter, Derek. What matters is… _this_? You can’t want this. And if you do…”

His eyes flicked back to Chris, who set his chin and added, “Then we’ll do what needs doing. So this is it. Maybe you’re not yourself right now, but you’ve proven how much damage you can cause. I can’t let you walk out of here beside that thing. So try to _think,_ Derek. And choose a side.”

.-.-.-.-.-

“Scott’s fine,” Derek breathed, and Stiles could breathe again too. “Probably healed already.”

Stiles squeezed his eyes shut. They’d gone strangely wet the second the relief hit him (exhaustion, that’s why) and he couldn’t deal with crying in front of Derek. Not now. Not on top of everything else.

Scott was ok, Derek had made it through the morning. Derek was here. _  
_

Derek was _here._

Derek’s forehead dropped back against Stiles’ like he couldn’t stand to stay apart… or more likely – outside of the drippy teen romance novel Stiles’ brain was dissolving into – because he just couldn’t stand. His hands had slid down to grip Stiles’ waist and he was wavering on his feet, leaning on Stiles more heavily by the second. If the door hadn’t been there to brace them, they both would’ve hit the ground by now.

They should probably have been moving, getting to a chair or something. But Derek was so warm, a mass of heat and solid muscle… and Stiles had been so cold all day. He’d been cold his whole goddamn life until now. The last thing he ever wanted was to move.

Derek made a soft sound, almost a growl but… happier. If he’d been a werecat, Stiles would’ve said he was purring. His head slid down to burrow against Stiles’ throat, breathing deeply. A nose nuzzled against Stiles’ neck, rough stubble against his collar.

And Stiles was gonna lose himself if he didn’t say something fast.

“You fought.” The words spilled out, clumsy and obvious. “You and Scott.”

Derek nodded. More friction against his throat, making Stiles’ muscles jump, his breath hitch in sharply.

And with each breath, Stiles could smell blood. So thick Derek was probably choking on it.

Stiles felt his hand clenching tight in Derek’s shirt again – not desperation, now.  _Anger_. Because what the hell was Scott doing, fighting Derek, after he’d promised Stiles he’d save him?  When Stiles had been possessed by the Nogitsune, Scott hadn’t given up on him for a second. But now Derek had a stupid fly in his veins making him twitchy and Scott decided to start clawing and crippling him?

“You’re upset,” Derek breathed. His thumbs were brushing across Stiles’ waist the same way they’d done to his cheeks, like he was trying to soothe Stiles, like he was still trying to convince himself Stiles was all there. Breaths danced over Stiles’ collar, and he wanted to cry all over again because this was so freaking unfair. How long had he wanted this? Just a quiet moment with Derek, Derek caring about him, Derek leaning against him, arms wrapped around him… and now he couldn’t even enjoy it.

His breath hitched, and he realized he was laughing.

It was all too ridiculous. All morning he’d lain here trying to think of a way to get in touch with Derek, like just talking with him would fix everything. And now he was here, and Derek was acting like Stiles _mattered_ and somehow that just made it all worse.

His hands were shoving at Derek’s chest before he’d even made a decision to move. Obviously, it didn’t to a damn thing to dislodge the mass of muscle against him, but Derek lifted his head up to look at Stiles, startled. (What the hell was he doing? The guy was on a freaking hair trigger…)

“Of course I’m upset, jerk. You and my best friend are tearing holes in each other. There’s a demon running around wearing my face and you’re just…” His voice was getting dangerously loud and he grit his teeth, tongue pressing hard against the insides like it might try to escape and keep ranting all on its own. He couldn’t let his dad hear. It wouldn’t be good for any of them.

Derek’s hands fell away from Stiles to brace on the door instead, but it wasn't enough. Stiles couldn’t _breathe_ when they were this close. He shoved at Derek again, blinking in surprise when Derek rocked backward, and ducked under his arm and out into the middle of the room, breathing deeply.

He couldn’t taste the blood in the air from here.

Shaking, he leaned down against his desk, reached for his computer and hit a few buttons. Music started blaring from the speakers.  There, one problem solved. At least his dad wouldn’t burst in and get himself killed now.

These days, things like that were too much of a relief.

Finally, the edge of hysteria fading out, he allowed his jaw to unclench. Derek had shifted to lean sideways against the door (damn, he really needed to sit down. He looked barely conscious on his feet, as bad as he’d looked in the last minutes of wolfsbane poisoning.  And _that_ memory was something else Stiles didn't need to deal with right now.)

Any chance he could just turn his brain off and go back to hugging Derek like nothing else mattered?

Derek’s eyes were so soft, watching him.

He couldn't.

“You’re not even you right now,” Stiles said, dully.

The softness flickered, pain and frustration flitting through in electric blue flashes. Stiles had never seen a wolf’s eyes shifting that fast, didn’t even know it was possible.

“This _is_ me,” Derek growled, sounding… frustrated, more than anything. Like he’d been through this too many times already, but also like he wanted, _needed_ , Stiles to understand. If he hadn’t been totally out of his head right now, the whole idea of that would’ve been really sweet. “Stiles, right now I’m more me than I’ve ever been.”

He really believed it, too. The way his eyes were flitting between Stiles’ own, searching for understanding... Stiles swallowed. He wasn’t totally wrong. This _was_ Derek, parts of Derek… what’d Argent said? Flashes, moments, quickly fading impulses. But that wasn’t what made up a person.

“You’re not thinking,” he said softly, carefully.

Derek squeezed his eyes shut, hands clenching into fists.

“This isn’t about _thinking_. It’s about being. Feeling, reacting. For once, I…” He pushed himself off the door and immediately started crumpling. Stiles cursed, ducked forward to grab him, and they both ended up on their knees three seconds later.

See right there? Not thinking.

Derek was gripping the back of Stiles neck, staring at him like he hadn’t even noticed the fall. Like all that mattered were his words, and Stiles hearing them.

“I don’t… show myself,” he murmured, like it was a revelation. Like anyone who’d ever met Derek would think he was an open book. But knowing it and hearing him say it were two different things. That Stiles was being trusted with this, Derek was confiding in him. “I don’t… I… I put so much effort into repressing every _fucking_ feeling because I can’t. Because when I feel, things go wrong. People die. And I’m scared.” His voice broke, and Stiles’ grip on his arms clenched, because Derek Hale never admitted he was scared. The word wasn’t in his vocabulary, even if it was constantly clawing at his heart. “So goddamn _scared_ every second of every day that the next decision I make is going to be the one that destroys me or someone else I…”

But the thing was, Derek wasn’t confiding in him. Derek wasn’t _choosing_ to say this, even if he really felt it. Listening in was an invasion, was wrong… and Stiles had already done enough digging into other people’s heads under the Nogitsune’s control.

“Derek, you don’t have to talk about this. I mean, I know you wouldn’t… I know it’s the bug…”

“It’s _me_ ,” Derek insisted. “That’s what this is, that’s what this all is. It’s… me taking control of the chaos. Doing exactly what I want, when I want to. Not living in fear.” He leaned in, eyes flitting across Stiles’ face, and they were still flashing between gold-green and blue in a way that shouldn’t even be possible, and Stiles’ body was reacting, flushing, eyes falling to Derek’s lips because what the hell else was he supposed to think of when Derek said something like that?

Fingers were smoothing up and down Stiles’ nape, and Stiles already felt like he was falling (was this happening? Was what he _thought_ was happening actually happening?) when Derek breathed:

“And you terrify me.”

The fingers dragged him forward.

.-.-.-One Hour Earlier-.-.-.

“Make a choice.”

Scott shot Argent a fast look, feeling sick. This couldn’t actually be happening. They couldn’t seriously be on the verge of killing Derek.

The older wolf was a total mess, eyes going hazy with pain and dizziness as he wavered on his knees on the bloody cement floor. Scott still couldn’t understand why Derek was doing this, why he’d ever choose to stand next to something so obviously evil. Seeing the Nogitsune next to Derek last night had been like Peter stepping up beside him in the locker room all over again… but at least Peter had been family. This was…

…A demon who looked like Stiles.

But if Derek wanted to be with Stiles, why wouldn’t just go and freaking _be_ with Stiles?

It made no sense to Scott’s straightforward brain, but he did know he couldn’t just let Argent shoot Derek. Derek had always been there, since the second this werewolf stuff started. Scott had been scared of him, resented him, and hated him... and come to rely on him in a way he didn't think he'd really ever acknowledged before now. Derek not existing, it didn’t even feel like an option.

He needed a plan; he needed to act fast.

And the demon was standing right in front of him.

He surged forward without warning, putting all his supernatural speed into the movement, and still barely managed to get a hand on the demon before it was twisting in his grip. He snarled and ducked toward its throat (he could tear it apart, it would have a hard time surviving that), but its eyes went wide in panic.

“Scott?”

_Stiles?_

Stupid.

He froze for less than a second, startled by the false innocence in the demon's eyes. But it was enough. The demon took advantage of his hesitation, jerking Scott's shoulders, twisting him and closing in behind him so he couldn’t hope to get a bite out of it. A hand gripped at his chin, the top of his head, in a grip like a vice. One sharp twist and he'd be a goner.

Derek snarled, dragged himself forward about a foot before crumpling in on himself, grimacing. Scott wasn’t sure who he’d been trying to help.

Argent had taken a few sharp steps too but had stalled again, intense, pale eyes locked on the demon.

“Let him go,” Argent's gun was still on Derek, which… yeah. Probably a smart move. Would a gun even do anything to the demon? A knife hadn't.

The Nogitsune laughed Stiles’ laugh, hand tightening around Scott’s jaw.

“Well, that would be counterproductive, wouldn’t it? Seeing as I apparently need him to stop you from doing something very stupid.”

“Let him go or I’ll shoot Derek.”

“See, that would be the stupid thing,” it quipped, before going toneless again. “Now, I propose a trade. I don’t twist my wrists and kill your precious corpse of a daughter’s true love...” Scott snarled and its breath huffed, amused, against his neck. “And you drop your weapons. All of them.  And I’ll let you both leave here in one piece.”

“One _living_ piece?” Scott spat through gritted teeth. The demon chuckled, releasing the top of Scott’s head just enough to ruffle his hair.

“Good boy, Scott. Yes, living. I won’t even stab any holes in you or come after you once you’re in the street. I think that’s fairly generous.”

Argent’s teeth grit, disbelieving.

“All for _Derek_?”

Derek’s eyes were squeezed shut and he was drawing in deep, shuddering breaths like it was taking all his effort to stay conscious. He’d talked the demon down before, but Scott didn’t see that happening this time.

“Ouch."  The demon didn't sound the slightest bit wounded. “Come on, Christopher. Even psycho sister Kate knew how to love, in her way. Is it so impossible to believe I do too?”

“You’re not human.”

“And neither are your wolf friends. I thought you were starting to expand your mind, hunter.” Its finger tapped Scott’s jaw thoughtfully. He fought another snarl. “It doesn’t matter. If you want Scott to live, you’ll drop your weapons.”

It hadn’t been too long ago that Argent had been _the enemy_. It was still weird to see the way his eyes went soft when they locked on Scott, the way he sighed, nodded, and lowered the gun. There was a terse thirty seconds while he drew out a second gun, then a dagger from his boot, the ones in his sleeves. Moving in clipped, efficient motions while his eyes stayed locked on the demon, promising death.

“That’s it,” he said finally. Eleven weapons lay at his feet.

The demon didn’t respond for several seconds, and _double-cross_ started repeating fast and panicked in Scott’s mind. Then it leaned in, breaths hot and slow against Scott’s neck.

”We’re old friends,” it breathed, so faint Scott could barely hear it. Derek, breathing hard and barely conscious, wouldn't be able to. Argent, definitely not. “So I’ll let you in on a little secret. _I’m_ not going to kill any of you. _He_ will. He’s not ready yet, but he will be. He’s going to tear apart his pathetic ties to humanity - the chains making him fear, making him doubt. And he’s going to love it, the freedom each new corpse will give him. When the last of you is lying lifeless at his feet, when he knows he has nothing left to lose, all his pain will be gone and he’ll truly be mine.”

Then it gripped Scott’s throat and shoved him away.

He stumbled toward Argent, staring at Derek.

It was insane. Derek had lost so many people already, there was no way he’d start killing the ones he had left.

No part of this made _any sense_ to Scott.

The older wolf looked up finally, eyes narrowing at Scott's stunned expression. And Scott felt a sudden need to say something, to not leave things like this.

“Derek, listen. You have people that care about you. I know you said that… that the Nogitsune’s what you have. But that’s dumb, ok?” Something pained flickered through Derek’s eyes, and Scott glanced back to the demon. Its lips were fighting a smirk, like Scott was saying exactly the wrong thing. What was the _right_ thing? “If you go to Deaton, he can get the bug out of you like before, and things will start making sense again.”

Derek was watching them with such a hazy expression that Scott wasn’t sure he was even taking in Scott’s words. Argent’s hand came down on Scott’s arm.

“We have to go." Argent's eyes were still on the demon, looking murderous even though his weapons were gone. If they stayed much longer, Scott was afraid the man might finally lose control and launch himself straight at it, bare-fisted.

“Ok,” Scott said. Derek’s eyes had fallen shut again. The demon was grinning too-brightly at Scott. “Yeah, ok.  Let’s go.”

.-.-.-.-.-

Stiles’ lips had barely grazed Derek’s – firm and smooth and _oh god_ this was happening – when a rap sounded on the door.

Stiles pulled back so fast he almost tumbled over.

“ _Dad?_   Wait, hold on... I’m not decent.”

He was so not decent. He was flushed and trembling, his heart thudding wildly into his ribs.  And Derek had hardly touched him.

His dad’s voice came, muffled, through the door: “Did I hear you fall over again a minute ago?”

Derek’s brows lifted, and Stiles winced.

“Yeah, that was me. Clumsy me, trying to get changed into, y’know, sleeping stuff. Just fell over.”

There was a slight pause.

“Do you need me to come in and help?”

Derek was looking completely amused now and god, he thought Stiles was a total klutz who needed his dad’s help to get changed…

“No, seriously Dad, I’ve got it under control. I promise. I’m just… gonna try and sleep, ok?”

If his dad didn’t believe him, if he opened the door… Stiles made frantic fleeing motions to Derek, who of course chose to completely ignore them. And he was grinning so wide now, teeth flashing wickedly, the smug jerk (but, god, it was so good to see him smile that Stiles couldn’t even be mad).

Finally, a sigh came through the door.

“I don’t know how you can sleep with that music blasting,” his dad muttered, and his footsteps receded back to the stairs.

Stiles swallowed down the familiar pang that surged up (his dad trusted him to tell if something was happening. He always trusted Stiles, and Stiles always ended up lying to him). Derek was still smirking.

“’Fall over _again_ ’?” he echoed, head tilting curiously.

“Dude, shut up.”

“Does that happen often?”

“Hey, you keep being a jerk and I’m not gonna kiss you.” It slipped out fast and careless. (Damn it, wasn’t Derek supposed to be the one with no filter right now?)

Derek’s smile fell away. That look of startled wonder was back in his eyes.

“You really want to.” He said it soft, like he could hardly believe it. Like _Stiles_ was way out of _his_ league. Like Stiles had been some kind of supersneaky ninja about his feelings all this time… Which, if he had, then go him, he guessed. But it probably had more to do with Derek just having the lowest self esteem humanly (wolfly?) possible. Like _“Oh, Stiles is staring at my mouth again? Must be something in my teeth.” “Stiles’ heartbeat kicks up to about five-zillion bpm every time I walk in the room? He’s probably still scared of me.”_

He smiled fondly.

“Yeah, dummy.”

There was a flicker of happiness - pure, desperate, disbelieving happiness - before it crumbled into something else entirely. Derek rocked back slowly, lips parting, his eyes going scared and vulnerable and…

_You terrify me._

Oh.  _Oh_ , that had been more than just...

_When I feel, things go wrong. People die._

“Derek…”

The wolf whimpered, faint and choked and frightened, looking like Stiles had just promised to slaughter his firstborn or something, not admitted that he maybe kind of definitely wanted to make out with him. His shoulders had gone tense – _everything_ had gone tense – and Derek was gonna run any second, he could feel it.

Stiles surged forward, grabbed Derek's cheeks in both hands, and kissed him.

Nothing interrupted it this time, not even Derek, whose hand had gone up like he might push Stiles away the second their lips met.

_Staystaystay_

Stiles tilted his head slightly, feeling Derek’s jaw jumping, feeling those firm lips trembling against his. The hand slowly dragged across Stiles’ chest, clenched into shirt.

Stiles broke away and leaned back enough to see Derek, eyes too-wide, just watching him.

“Hey, I’m here, Derek. I’m not going anywhere. Stay with me.”

The panicked gaze darted between Stiles’ eyes as though he was searching for a lie in them. Like he wouldn’t be able to hear it in Stiles' heartbeat.

And Stiles' heart did jolt after a few seconds when he realized… hell, he might be dying.  _Was_ he? Was he going to do exactly what Derek was so scared he would?

But Derek made another soft sound, low and desperate and longing, and pressed forward against Stiles again. And all thoughts about his own mortality flew right out of Stiles’ head because Derek was seriously _kissing_ him this time, deep, slow, open-mouthed kisses that shuddered through Stiles like nothing he’d ever felt. Derek was still making noises but there was no fear in them now – soft, needy keens that were barely being drowned out by… god, was that Fall Out Boy? Was that really their first makeout band? They could do so much better, stupid playlist.

Derek’s hands were on his waist, dragging him forward, and suddenly their bodies were pressed together, knee to elbow. Derek was hot against him, burning like an open flame against Stiles’ too-cold flesh. He needed to be closer, needed Derek all around him. His hand dragged under Derek’s shirt, brushing across scabbing flesh in a way that made Derek growl and break the kiss. Stiles’ tongue felt clumsy, brain foggy, but he started to apologize anyway before Derek’s mouth came down on his jaw, grazing teeth across it and moving to tongue roughly across Stiles’ throat.

Words. Gone. A wavering, whimpering groan escaped instead, and he tilted his head and dragged his hand further up Derek’s bare back.

Derek started to lean back on his heels and Stiles followed him forward, leaning heavily into his hips before Derek broke away again, hissing.

“My leg.”

“ _Shit._   Right." Stiles paused, blinking. "Ok, bed.”

Bed. Yeah, this would definitely go a lot better on the bed.

Which was easier said than done. Stiles still felt dizzy if he moved too fast and Derek seemed no stronger than he’d been when he got there, and neither of them willing to let go of each other long enough to brace their hands on anything else. Derek finally managed to drag himself up by the sheer strength in his right leg, the left one dragging limply under him as he pulled Stiles up after. They were back to kissing before Stiles’ head stopped spinning.

“I should… your leg… bandage it or…”

“Shut up,” Derek breathed, leaning into Stiles with each step, hands heavy on his waist. “It’ll heal.”

“Right, I know, but it still might get infected or bleed too much and that’d be—” He cut off in a groan as Derek’s mouth enveloped his again, which was the nicest way anyone had ever shut him up, honestly.

Derek stumbled right before they hit the bed, and Stiles was barely able to keep him upright long enough to guide him over to the mattress. Derek dragged himself backward, pulling Stiles on top of him. He went more than willingly, straddling Derek’s hips, feeling some distant relief at being horizontal because the blood rushing in his ears, the blood rushing… other places… was making him verge on a blackout.

He broke the kiss, gasping too quickly, the bed wobbling weirdly under him. Derek gazed up at him, eyes lust-hazed and hungry, as he forced himself to gulp in slow, deep breaths.

“God, is this real?” And his mouth wasn’t going to stop being stupid today, was it? Granted, it’d gotten him this far, but it was seriously starting to push it. Derek’s lips quirked, his thumbs tracing spirals along Stiles’ waist.

“Do you want to stop if it is?”

“ _No._ ” See? Stupid mouth. “It’s just… if it’s real then we really have to keep quiet, or my dad’s gonna hear us and burst in here and really seriously shoot you.”

Derek’s eyes gleamed and then he was moving, hand going to brace Stiles’ head before he rolled them both, pressing Stiles down into the mattress instead. The movement was so smooth and gentle that Stiles didn’t even have a chance to get dizzy, before Derek’s finger was trailing down his cheek, fond and soft, eyes dancing as he breathed:

“Forbidden romance, huh?”

And that was… that made it all so… unbelievably corny. And so ridiculously hot Stiles couldn’t even stand it.

“Uhn…” He shifted restlessly under Derek, exhaling hard at the heat and the friction and the _idea_ of it all (and when exactly had Stiles become such a cheesy romantic, anyway? When had _Derek?_ ) “You’re pretty much filling all the classic bad boy requirements right now.”

Derek laughed, leaning in to nip at his lip.

And everything was so close to perfect Stiles could almost ignore everything that was wrong.

Did Derek really want this? Would this have ever happened if he weren’t infected? Was this just an instinct, an impulse that would burn out any second? Was he going to stay afterward or run right back to the demon?

…Was he even really _here_ with Stiles right now?

“Say my name,” he breathed before he could help it, and Derek pulled back slowly, that finger still trailing, tracing across his collar now, making his breath flutter.

“Stiles _,”_ he said, very seriously, and Stiles felt his next breath go out so sharply it felt more like a sob. Tension he didn’t even know he’d been holding fell away. He grabbed Derek’s nape and dragged himself up, kissing Derek’s cheek fast before going back to his mouth. Derek groaned, rolling their bodies together in a way that just made everything so much fucking better, and breathed “ _Stiles_ ” again when their lips broke for a gasp.

He could spend the rest of his life just listening to that sound, just feeling those hips roll against his.

But then Derek let out a shuddering breath and pushed himself away, rolling to his back and then laying still, breathing heavily.

Stiles forced himself to swallow the disappointed whine that tried to drag itself from his throat. Fear, lust, and fever all left him shuddering. Without Derek wrapped around him he felt so goddamn _cold_.

He trailed a wavering gaze to the left and found Derek staring at the ceiling, an unreadable look on his face.

The words _quickly fading impulse_ drummed through Stiles' brain like the start of a bad migraine. He licked his lips, braced himself before murmuring, “Derek… what—”

“Scott’s probably going to tell you I killed some people.”

He said it just like that: easy, emotionless. So casually that Stiles repeated the words about six times in his head before he could bring himself to accept them.

He swallowed, pushed himself up on an elbow, and fought a wince as his muscles burned with the effort.

“…Why would he tell me that?”

“Because I killed some people." Derek’s eyes were drifting across the ceiling like he was stargazing. He sounded calmer than Stiles had heard him all day. Then his eyes flitted to Stiles and there was the slightest flutter of nerves. He shifted anxiously and looked back to the ceiling.

Oh, well that was something at least. He was worried about Stiles’ reaction, but not about being a murderer. Great.

“I’m… not sure how I’m supposed to react to that.”

It explained why Scott had attacked Derek, at least.

Derek was a killer. An actual, legitimate killer. He was lying in bed with a killer. He’d just been making out with a killer.

But it was _Derek._ And maybe, once upon a time, "Derek" and "killer" could have gone together in Stiles' brain like one being, but with everything they'd been through, the memory of Derek's broken expression as he hovered over Boyd, the way he'd fought and failed not to shut down after Erica, the concern he'd shown for an increasingly sickly Cora... Stiles couldn't picture it. It made him sick, even trying to accept it. Derek might kill if he had to, to protect his loved ones, but he wasn't a _killer_.

...Except he'd just admitted that he was.

“They deserved it,” the killer in question said after way too long a pause. “Deserved worse. Tortured me and Peter in Mexico. They’ve been trailing me for months. They’ve been _hunting Cora._ ” There was a flash of something in his eyes – a spark of rage that flared up and burned out fast. And Stiles felt a shudder of relief ( _they weren’t innocent.  They were torturers, killers_ ) run through him.

“God, why the hell didn’t you lead with that?”

Derek’s eyes slid to him, frowning faintly.

“It got… brutal.” His right hand lifted – the battered one with the long bullet streak across the sleeve's forearm, the one completely red with dried blood. He made a slow clenching motion in the air, staring at it with dull eyes. “I enjoyed it too much. I’m not…” The hand dropped back to his chest. “I’m not sure who I am anymore, Stiles.”

Stiles’ lips parted. He wasn’t sure how to deal with this toneless confession. Not sure how he felt about hearing it.

“You don’t feel guilty,” he observed, because if every emotion Derek felt was bleeding straight to the surface, he definitely wasn’t feeling anything now.

Derek’s eyes drifted back to Stiles.

“Should I?”

Yes. Yes, obviously. Murder was _bad._  Enjoying murder was definitely bad. That was something made clear to Stiles – to most people, probably even little werewolf pups like Derek – from a very young age. It was pretty much the whole foundation of his dad’s paycheck too, a fact that kept his family (and pretty much everyone else too, Stiles supposed) going.

Murder was absolutely a bad thing.

“They were hunting down Cora?”

Derek nodded, quick and clipped, a flash of emotion tightening his jaw again. Stiles felt his own teeth gritting. He reached out slowly, laying his hand over Derek’s bloody fist.

“Then I’m glad you did it. I would’ve helped.”

Derek’s eyes fell to their clasped hands, slow and surprised, and then back to Stiles’ face.

He looked desperate again, disbelieving and hopeful, and Stiles figured it was probably a pretty good time to lean in for another kiss.

Derek’s fingers twisted and twined with his, holding tightly as their lips met.

.-.-.-

They were both too worn down to do more than kiss lazily, fingers trailing down cheeks and chests before coming back to clasp again (and who’d have ever guessed Derek would be a hand holder, but somehow it didn’t shock Stiles one bit).

Eventually, Derek dragged them both far enough back that his shoulders braced against the headboard, and Stiles was sprawled out across him, head on his chest, their legs twisted together.

“That’s it,” Stiles declared, delirious with exhaustion and the rare thrill of happiness. “You’re my pillow from now on. I expect you here every night or I’m not falling asleep.”

His hand was still up at Derek’s neck, trailing down his nape, tracing the line of his jaw.

Derek’s chest moved a little under him, a quick, silent laugh. Stiles loved that he could feel something like that from this position.

That cinched it. Derek's chest was his home now. He wasn't ever moving, and everyone would just have to deal with it.

“Go to sleep, Stiles.”

“You go to sleep,” he shot back, lips curling. “You’re the wounded one.”

“Which is why you’re using me as your personal mattress?”

“’M being a blanket. Keep you warm while you heal. It’s helpful.”

“Idiot,” Derek said, which Stiles took as a thank you.

He was on the verge of coming up with something to say to that, and it was gonna be really good too, but his head was so heavy, and Derek’s fingers were trailing through his hair, and a comfortable darkness was washing over him.

The last thing he remembered was Derek breathing in deep and slow, and murmuring “you smell wrong.”

Or maybe that was part of a dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter killed me, people. I rewrote it 5 different ways (I kid not, I have 5 Word documents open with different versions of the chapter) before ending up here, but I'm pretty happy with how it finally came together.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed the Sterek! Things seem happy now, but we know it can't last for long. Especially after the Nogitsune's warning to Scott... *sigh* Why do I torture the characters I love?
> 
> Anyway, as always reviews are so incredibly appreciated. Feedback is love.
> 
> \--  
> * The French: "You could not protect your family, you cannot protect yourself."
> 
> This was put together based on high school French I haven't used in years, so sorry if it's not perfect. Then again, the Nogitsune's knowledge of French comes from Rhys, who wasn't exactly an expert. So I guess it makes sense if it's sloppy. :P


	5. Chapter 5

When Derek woke up the first time it was in a fit of panic – nausea, guilt, and fear so deep it shuddered out through him like a wolfsbane-laced bullet. And that was all before he registered the warm body sprawled out on top of him.

_Stiles._

He couldn’t… he shouldn’t be here. There were so many goddamn reasons why he shouldn’t be here. No matter how much he wanted it, how much Stiles insisted he wanted it too.

And god, he wanted. In a way he couldn’t rationalize, in a way that left him desperate to get closer, desperate to run.

_He smelled wrong._

His arms were trembling as he started to shift, to pull himself free. He needed to run – run _where_ , he didn’t know, but the flight instinct had never been so strong in him in his life – but Stiles was shifting along with him, blinking sleepy eyes open, running soothing hands up his sides and shushing him, pressing kisses against his still-clothed chest. And looking up at him, confusion and concern and “It’s ok, Derek. I’m here, it’s ok.”

He thought Derek’s mind was caught up in some other nightmare – the fire or dead hunters or the Nogitsune, even. He had no idea that his softness was more terrifying than every nightmare in Derek’s life so far.

“Hey, shh, it’s ok. S’all good here, Der’k. We’re having freakout free naptimes now, k?”

Stiles was burying his face against Derek’s neck now, lips skimming the skin in a way that sent a whole different kind of shudder through him, breathing soothing nothings until he trailed off into sleep again. One hand clasped in Derek’s, his thumb running small circles along the webbing between Derek’s fingers long after his words had faded out.

And Derek didn’t run. Eventually, the tremors faded.

When he woke up a second time, there was a gun pointed at his face.

.-

Teenage years were apparently a very delicate stage in the matter of parent-child relationships. It was essential to make sure you were giving your teenager adequate space and privacy, that you weren’t smothering them or stifling their fledgling sense of independence and self-determination.

The Sheriff wasn’t ashamed to admit that he’d skimmed through a parenting book or two over the years – with a kid like Stiles, he could use all the helpful hints he could get. And he wasn’t ashamed to admit that he’d like to take those books and shove them right up the authors’ collective asses. Privacy and self-determination could go screw themselves.

Because Stiles was asleep in his bed just like he’d promised, his head nestled against Derek Hale’s neck.

Sprawled out on top of the older man, their legs (fully clothed, thank god for small favors) tangled together, Stiles’ leg hooking loosely around the other man’s calf like an intimate, long-legged hug. Hale was halfway sitting, back braced against Stiles’ pillows and the headboard, his hand clasping Stiles’ nape. Stiles’ too-pale features were smoothed out, peaceful, in a way his father hadn’t seen in days.

It was almost a sweet picture… except for the way Stiles’ whole forearm had burrowed itself under Hale’s shirt, dragging the fabric halfway up his chest and revealing a mess of bloodstained skin under even more bloodstained fabric.

...And the fact that _Derek Hale_ was sleeping on his _teenage son’s_ bed.

His gun was up and aiming less than a second after he’d stepped into the room. Hale’s eyes were open a heartbeat later. They went wide and frantic in a way the Sheriff had never seen, that he attributed at first to his startled awakening. But the look didn’t fade out. If anything, it got edgier: muscles jumping, eyes going wild and… there was no other word for it, _feral_. His teeth started to bare, his hand clenching against Stiles’ neck. It seemed almost a protective gesture, but it was also a tangible threat. Just a few pounds of pressure or a sharpened claw and…

Derek’s teeth were sharper than any human’s now, his eyes literally flickering between their natural color and blinding blue, like an electric current sparking and shorting out. And the growl rising up in his chest was anything but human.

And damned if he knew how to react to this. When Chris Argent had called and told him to be on the lookout for Derek, that he might come after Stiles, the last thing he’d expected was to discover them _cuddling_ together. Or to find Hale snarling like a rabid animal and acting like Stiles’ own father was the intruder.

Before he could decide between trying to talk the man down or just pulling the trigger (his _hand_ was on his _son’s neck_. There came a point where you had to just screw procedure and start shooting) Stiles started shifting. His head rolled, nuzzling against Derek’s collar, a hand smoothing down his blood-crusted side in sleepy strokes.

 _Petting him,_ the Sheriff's brain supplied in a way that felt like it should be a joke, only it wasn't. That's exactly what was happening.

“Shh… Der… s’ok…”

And the flashing eyes closed, and the hand on Stiles’ nape loosened, and when they blinked open again the feral animal was gone and Derek Hale was lying on his son’s bed.

Twenty seconds ago that had been enough to cause a panic. Now it felt like a relief.

He held the Sheriff’s gaze for an unnerving second, before putting a finger to his lips and sliding his attention down to Stiles. His expression went… the Sheriff wanted to call it fond, but that didn’t quite fit. It was more than fond: gentle and protective and… _more_ than that.

When the hell had this happened?

The hand slid from Stiles' neck and smoothed through his hair until he settled again, breaths slowing, deepening. Hale’s lips tilted, those more-than-fond eyes trailing down Stiles’ face for a few seconds more before he looked up, arching a brow, expectant.

The Sheriff twitched his head toward the door and the other man nodded, shifting carefully to the edge of the bed.

Stiles had always been a heavy sleeper – when he was out he was _out_ , to the point where one of the Sheriff’s biggest fears when accepting his first night shifts again after Claudia had been that his son would sleep straight through a fire, alarm positioned right outside his doorway be damned. But now he groaned at Hale’s first movement, murmuring wordless protests as the older man wrapped an arm around him and shifted him gently down onto the mattress. He sat up slowly and stalled as Stiles’ hand (their hands were clasped, how had the Sheriff missed _that_?) refused to let him go.

Hale’s free hand trailed down Stiles’ sleeping cheek. He leaned down to breathe something against his ear and press a kiss into their twined fingers. And the Sheriff was standing in the doorway, gun still aiming unwaveringly at the other man’s head, and somehow he _had_ become the intruder.

On this strangely intimate moment between his son and a twenty-three year old werewolf.

Maybe the parenting books were right. Maybe there were just some things you didn’t need to know. For the sake of your own sanity.

Stiles’ grip loosened, smiling drowsily and burying his face into his pillow as Hale tugged his fingers free and stood. The Sheriff backed a few steps into the hall and Hale followed, pulling Stiles’ door shut behind him and leaning against the wall, a wary expression slipping back over his angular features.

“I really don’t like having guns pointed at me.” There was an edge in the tone. A warning.

“Well, I don’t really give a damn.”

Derek was starting to go tense again, feet shifting, shoulders rolling sharply at seemingly random intervals. His eyes flitted between the gun and the staircase, and they were red – not Leader Wolf Red or whatever it was called, but an exhausted, stressed, wrung-out red that the Sheriff had encountered too many times. He’d seen a lot of supernatural crap in the past few months, but that wasn’t what the man in front of him reminded him of. No, Hale had the jittery look of a junkie coming off his last high.

The Sheriff eased his stance slightly, tone gentling.

“Derek, let’s talk.” As much as he wanted to shout at the man or shove him straight out of the house, now wasn’t the time for that. “What’s going on with you?”

The man’s gaze was shifting all over, which could’ve meant he was getting ready to lie, except that Derek Hale was a much more adept liar than that. No, he just seemed agitated, like he didn't remember how to stand still.

“What’d Scott tell you?”

Apparently not enough.

“Doesn’t matter what anyone else told me. I’d like you to tell me what’s going on, in your own words.”

“That, with Stiles… we haven’t…”

“We’ll get to Stiles,” the Sheriff said evenly. And they would. But first… “What’s going on with _you_?” Derek swallowed, shifting against the wall again, looking scared and young and wrecked. Like Stiles did after one of his nightmares, and it was an unsettling comparison. “What did the Nogitsune do to you?”

“I…” His shoulders were trembling with tension, hands going clawed as they clenched against the wall. Whatever peace he’d possessed back in Stiles’ room had vanished the second the door closed between them. “Please, I don’t like guns pointing at me.” His eyes were sparking feral again as he looked up and caught the Sheriff’s gaze. “I’m going to kill you if you don’t lower it _now._ ”

Not a threat exactly, but most definitely a warning. There was a distinct difference in tone between the two. The Sheriff had been through more than one standoff where his life had been threatened, and one very memorable incident when a battered wife had tried to warn him off her armed, drunken husband. _Please, just go, before he gets angry and does something stupid._ It was just like that now… Except Derek was warning on behalf of himself.

 _He might not be quite himself,_ Argent had cautioned that morning. The other man apparently had a knack for understatements. Probably came from having to lie to the law for so many years.

He’d have time to berate Argent later. Right now Derek’s claws were digging welts into his wall and he had about half a second to decide whether to play safe and shoot him, or abandon his only defense and hope for the best.

Stiles had been smiling when they’d left him.

The Sheriff lowered his gun.

Some of the tension went out of the younger man; he breathed out a long, growling huff and his shoulders slumped downward. He nodded, quick and grateful.

“I would regret killing you,” he said, sincere in a way that sent a chill straight through the Sheriff.

Whatever was going on with Hale right now, he was a bomb on a hair-trigger. A bomb that’d been sleeping in his son’s bed.

“And Stiles? Would you regret killing him?” Electric blue eyes flicked toward the closed door. Green eyes turned slowly back.

“I thought we weren’t talking about Stiles.”

“I found you in my son’s bed, and I haven’t shot you. I’ve earned the right to jump to whatever topic I damn well please.” The younger man winced. His hand clenched, clawed nails digging into the flesh of his own palm.

“Derek…”

“Is Stiles sick?”

The words threw him, made his own hand clench around his gun.

“He’s had a rough few days. Rough few weeks. Why?”

His head shook, fingers splaying back out, claws dark with blood. It spread from crescent wounds and dripped down his palm.

“He smells…” The hand pressed into his chest, left a bloody print in its wake. He looked down at it, seeming startled by the dampness, as if he hadn’t even realized he was bleeding. Not that it made much of a difference – his shirt was already a torn, bloody mess. His jeans weren’t in much better shape, and his face was spattered with dried crimson streaks.

“Derek, talk to me.” He looked up slowly, a shiver shuddering through him. “Hey, tell me what’s wrong with you and we’ll fix it.”

The look that flitted through his eyes was confused, uneasy. They were the same eyes Lahey had worn when they’d first spoken, the same eyes the Sheriff had seen on too many people passing through the station over the years. Eyes of a survivor, not sure why anyone would care to ask.

“Don’t… everyone has to stop worrying about me. I’ll be fine if I can just… I’m better like this.”

The Sheriff’s eyes narrowed. Derek was still shuddering, his bleeding palm rapidly healing, eyes red and wild and darting. It struck the Sheriff suddenly, _viscerally_ , that this was the same boy he’d called out of basketball practice seven years ago to tell about his family’s house fire. Since he’d come back he’d seemed so much older than twenty-three. A suspected murderer, and then a _werewolf_ , and then an ally, but always, _always,_ contained and in control. And now…

“I think you have too low an opinion of how you were before.”

“Look, I just… I need to get a handle on it.” He swallowed, letting out a ragged breath. “A _year._ A year and I never thought to tell Stiles. Something like that, it always choked me, but now…” He let out a thin laugh, grinning wildly at the ground in a way that no father ever wants to see someone smile about his child. “It’s terrifying, but it’s there. Right there on the surface. I can feel things. Do you even know what’s it’s like to be able to _feel_ things?”

He looked up, fast and wondering, like it was a revelation. Like being able to express your emotions, like not digging through layers of numbness and repression, was something he hadn’t even been able to imagine before now.

And the Sheriff felt suddenly, supremely stupid.

Because this _was_ the same boy whose family had been murdered in a house fire. Whose sister had been torn apart by – if he was remembering Stiles’ whirlwind of information correctly – their own uncle. Who had spent his first months back in Beacon Hills squatting in the burnt out shell of the building his family had lost their lives in. The Sheriff was no therapist, but he’d been to enough of his and Stiles’ own sessions to know what post traumatic stress sounded like.

For too long, Derek Hale had just been a face on a wanted poster, a name on a rap sheet. And honestly his well-being hadn’t been the Sheriff’s top priority ever since. But the memory of that teenaged boy clutching his sister’s arm, gutted and vulnerable before slowly slipping into glassy-eyed shock… He hadn’t been _together_ all this time. He’d been draped in a hard, calloused shell, and who could tell what had been scrambling underneath?

…This. This had.

_And of course Stiles would fall for a too old supernatural creature with emotional trauma to boot._

No matter what his boy said or tried to feed him, it was clear he was trying to give his father a heart attack. ...Then again, could he really be surprised? His kid had always had a knack for dragging people back from the razor’s edge.

He drew in a slow breath, lifted his free hand, and took a step toward the shaking man.

“Listen. I know that when things go bad, sometimes it’s easy to shut down. And it’s much harder to pull yourself out of it again. You feel like you need a little… help to tug you out of that pit, to feel anything other than numb.” The liquor cabinet still called to him on bad nights. “But it’s not right, and you’ll just feel worse when the rush fades out. I don’t know what’s going on here, if this is drugs or… magic fairy dust, or what, but I can tell you you’re not better off for having it.”

Derek was watching him with a focused, searching gaze. His eyes had stopped changing colors.

“I tried. ...Tried making a new pack and they… I forced them away. Forced Cora away. I… don’t think anything with Jennifer was ever real.” He laughed, eyes going distant again. “If it was, is that better or worse?”

It was a rhetorical question. The Sheriff wasn’t sure what he was even talking about. But the thought was making Derek’s face crumple, and the Sheriff took a slow breath.

“You have people who care about you.” His boy cared. And the Sheriff was starting to think, even if that weren’t the case, maybe he would anyway.

The man’s lips twisted ironically, but his eyes were still staring off at a stray patch of ceiling.

“Is that better or worse?” he breathed again. Then he looked back to the Sheriff. “You’re not going to let me see him again.”

He said it like he was just a young man, not a powerful supernatural being who could kill anyone standing between him and Stiles and go to him anyway. The Sheriff lifted his chin and responded in kind.

“Not while you’re like this. My son’s carried enough of other people’s pain.”

Derek searched his face, slow and assessing, and there was something of the wolf in his eyes again as he nodded.

“You’re a good father.”

“He deserves nothing less.”

Somehow, that made Derek’s eyes fall. He dragged them back up a second later, firm and steady and sincere.

“He deserves the best of everything.”

And in that instant, whatever else might or might not happen, the Sheriff knew that he cared what happened to Derek Hale. His gun slid into its holster.

“Listen, son…”

“He’s sick,” Derek said softly. “I’ll stay away. Help him.”

And then he hoisted himself over the banister, landing silently on the first floor. By the time the Sheriff moved to look down the stairs, he was already gone.

.-

The Nogitsune was there when Derek pushed his way into the loft, lounging on his bed like it owned it, braced on one shoulder and paging through a thick volume with a disinterested air.

“I know you humans enjoy your skewed ‘victor tells the story’ version of history but I have to say, this whole westernization of Japan process did not go down the way the history books say. Even the generous ones.”

A brow arched as Derek reached the foot of the bed and ripped the tome in question from the demon’s hand. It skittered away across the floor.

“I see somebody missed—”

Its back slammed into the mattress and then there was heat, Derek sliding over him, pausing barely long enough to shrug out of his shirt before he was pressing in close, all corded muscle and writhing hunger. Derek rocked their bodies together, his mouth grinding into the demon’s hard enough to dig marks in their gums.

Derek was half-hard already, like he’d been craving this all the way home, like just the thought of it had been enough to unravel him. And he was groaning against the demon, biting its lip with dragging teeth and digging his hands down its sides before drawing back, eyes hazy and desperate.

“Hurt me.”

This kept getting better. The demon's eyes gleamed.

“I can do that.”

.-

Stiles was alone when he woke.

Maybe he should’ve expected it, he thought, fighting a shiver because it was so goddamn cold with the furnace of Derek’s body gone. And the low whimper that escaped his throat, that was from the cold too.

Because he said so, and fuck you for thinking otherwise.

Fall Out Boy was playing again. The music must have been on a loop. He rolled and stared at the ceiling, mouthing along soundlessly.

 _Going down swinging..._  Yeah, that sounded like his entire life. Except that his life usually ended up taking about the shape of an Alpha-Twin Zord’s skull, his swings just shattering away like a wood bat on impact.

 _God complex_ sounded about right too. But for Derek, for flitting around doing whatever the fuck he wanted, or Stiles for thinking that he could kiss Derek a few times and fix everything?

He refused to acknowledge the Nogitsune, no matter how big its stupid God complex was, because he wasn’t going to ruin any band by relating it to that psychopath, even if it was just Fall Out Boy.

Stupid, perfectly fitting his crap life Fall Out Boy.

“Stiles?”

He hadn’t heard the bedroom door open, but when he squinted across the room his dad was standing there, nearly silhouetted in the doorway. The shadows of his form not quite dark enough to mask his drawn, tired expression. Stiles hated that he was causing that. _Again_.

“Hey, dad. I know I said food later, but I’m unbelievably not hungry right now, so…”

“Scott’s downstairs.”

That had Stiles sitting up fast.

“Is he…” Scott and Derek had fought. Derek had said that Scott was fine, but… “Wait, what about Mr. Argent?” Because Stiles hadn’t asked. Because he’d been too wrapped up in Derek and worrying about Derek and feeling Derek pressed against him,  _finally_  wanting him, finally touching him…

“He’s home, checking in with Isaac. And hopefully getting some rest.” His dad shook his head wearily, and Stiles glanced away. Tried not to think of Argent back at his apartment, lying unsteadily in his own bed, trying and failing to sleep in a house that no longer felt like home. A father in mourning for his kid.

Stiles wasn’t dying. He _wasn’t_. He wouldn’t do that to his dad.

He pushed himself out of bed and started toward the stairs. His dad caught his arm as he passed, looking strained.

“Maybe you should wash up before you go down.”

Stiles blinked. He’d dragged himself into a shower that morning. He couldn’t be too gamey.

His dad’s hand dug into his shoulder, insistent.

“Scott’s downstairs,” he said again, which didn’t really clear anything up, because if anyone could see Stiles when he was all sickly and sweaty and gross, it was Scott. But his dad’s jaw had that no-nonsense _just do what I say, kid_ set to it, and Stiles rolled his eyes and U-turned to the bathroom and…

What the actual fuck?

He was covered in blood.

Ok, not covered, but there were streaks of it on his hands and his cheeks. From Derek, obviously, but that wasn’t the part that had him freaking out, because his dad wouldn’t _know_ it was from Derek. Unless he did. Did he? Because why the hell would he tell Stiles to wash up instead of grilling him about being _covered in blood_?

Not that washing up was a bad suggestion on the face of it. If Stiles’ brain had been functioning at more than half-capacity, he would’ve thought to wash before going downstairs anyway. Werewolves could totally _scent_ things on other people. Blood aside, Scott would be able to smell Derek on Stiles, know right away that he’d been here.

Stiles wasn’t sure when he’d decided not to tell anyone Derek had been here, but he was hopping in the shower and scrubbing his skin raw before he’d even thought about it; tripping back out of the shower and grabbing the little-used Axe body wash from under the sink. Scott had mentioned how the sharp, spicy scent was irritating at one point and Stiles, bestest-best friend that he was, had switched to something less scented for the sake of his friends' wolfy noses. But now he was pouring it clumsily up his arms, down his chest, and lathering so much over himself so that the entire floor of the shower ended up an ankle-deep mass of bubbles.

All the better for Scott _not_ to smell him with, he figured.

He rushed back to his room just long enough to shrug on a shirt and jeans before ducking back out, stopping back in the bathroom again to refresh his eau de Axe scent (because who knew how easy a wolf’s nose could sniff out a scent? Would Scott be able to pick up Derek just from Stiles' brief walk through the room they'd both slept in?) before taking the stairs three at a time.

He realized distantly that he felt _good._ Like, hopping down stairs without feeling totally arthritic good. A little sleep, or maybe a little Derek (he swallowed a grin) had done awesome, wonderful things for him.

Scott was sitting at the kitchen table in front of a crumb-covered plate, looking tired. Some of the warm feeling went away.

“Sorry man, I was kind of ridiculously grimy.”

His friend wrinkled his nose the second Stiles walked in.

“Dude, really?” And honest to god sneezed. Yeah, Stiles was definitely feeling guilty already.

“Yeah, sorry. That was… really my only option in the shower today.” Which wasn’t a lie. It was his only option if he wanted to make sure he smelled Derek-free.

He was really way too experienced with the whole ‘not quite lying’ thing.

“But anyway, how’s everything going? Did you, uh… did you find the Nogitsune?”

Scott grimaced, shoving his plate away and leaning his elbows on the table. He looked dead tired, and Stiles wondered if his friend had stopped to rest at all.

“Yeah, about that. Mr. Argent and I ran into the Nogitsune and Derek a few hours ago. There’s something you need to know.”

He looked pained and nervous, and Stiles grimaced because he was pretty sure he already knew what Scott was getting at. It would be easy to tell Scott as much, to stop his friend from going through what he obviously thought to be a difficult story. But he just slid into a seat across the table and pressed his lips together.

“Derek’s not doing so good, Stiles. He… um.” Scott paused and glanced toward the corner of the room, where Stiles’ father leaned, arms crossed and eyes grim, against the counter. “We found him and the Nogitsune in an old warehouse downtown, and they were surrounded by corpses, man. A lot of them were obviously slashed apart by claws, and Derek didn’t deny killing them.”

Stiles saw his father go tense, winced.

“...Oh.”

Which obviously wasn’t enough of a response for Scott.

“ _Oh_? I said he killed people, Stiles. He killed six people.”

Six hunters. _Six torturers._

“Right. I mean… oh, that’s messed up.” Had he thought he was good at the lying thing? “I mean, that is a big deal. I just, uh… give me a second to process, alright?” Scott seemed mildly appeased, until Stiles continued, “Did he say why?”

“Does it _matter_ why?”

Sometimes Stiles forgot that his friend was basically Superman. Truth and justice, and not the vigilante kind. Stiles shrugged, trying to ease the tension running between them.

“I mean… yeah. Look, he might be impulse-control-issues Derek, but he’s still _Derek_ , right? He wouldn’t kill someone if he didn’t have a reason. Maybe they attacked him, or… threatened someone he cared about or something.”

“Did he tell you that?”

Stiles stalled, eyes going wide as Scott set a grim look on him. There was no way he knew. Stiles had practically drowned himself in shower gel smells, and Scott hadn’t been upstairs. He recovered fast, brows lifting.

“Dude, I haven’t been out of the house all day, like I promised. And he hasn’t called me, if he even has his phone anymore.”

He felt his father’s eyes on him, assessing, and knew he’d caught the wiggle room in the words even if Scott hadn’t.

But Scott didn’t seem all that convinced either, crossing his arms more firmly and leveling a look that was stern and firm and all kinds of disappointed.

“Wow, Scott. You’ve been really working on your Alpha stare-downs.”

“I know he was here, Stiles. I smelled him the second I walked in.”

“I…” _How?_ Could he seriously smell all the way through the ceiling and into Stiles’ bedroom? Because that raised some serious questions about boundaries and privacy that Stiles really didn’t want to deal with. “Scott…”

“I found Derek here earlier,” his dad interrupted, pushing himself off the counter. “I talked to him, and he left through the door. Stiles was asleep the whole time; you know how dead to the world he is when he conks out.”

Stiles felt himself gaping, forced his mouth to snap shut. If his dad had seen... and with the blood all over Stiles... Either his dad was way more oblivious than he’d ever appeared, or he was covering for Stiles.

Scott jerked upright.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

The man narrowed his eyes at Scott’s tone.

“It’s not like I’ve been kept up to date on everything going on around here. Certainly no one told me about any murders, even though I, the Sheriff, should probably be clued in on things like that.”

The words were directed toward Scott, but Stiles felt the weight of them. Yeah, his dad had seen through his reactions, and he was so getting grounded for the rest of his life. He had the talk of all talks on responsibility and procedure heading toward him the second Scott left the house.

“So Derek didn’t say anything about it?” Scott asked.

His father’s eyes swept to Stiles, searched his face. He could feel the desperation radiating off of his skin, and wondered if Scott could smell it through the shower gel.

“I… believe Derek had a reason for whatever he did,” his dad said, and Stiles had never wanted to hug someone so much in his life.

Scott was giving up on Derek. He could feel the doubt and resignation hovering there in his eyes, in the set of his shoulders. Had felt it since this morning. But now, at his dad’s words, Scott was nodding thoughtfully.

“Mr. Argent said it looked like they might’ve been hunters. Which doesn’t make it ok,” he added, scowling at the relieved grin threatening to break over Stiles’ face.

“Right, it definitely doesn’t. Hunters can be great. Mr. Argent’s awesome now that he’s not directing his absolute terrifying-ness on us. But come on, if Derek killed hunters, who’s gonna bet they were trying to kill him first?”

Which they _had_ been, but to say explain that Stiles would have to admit to talking to Derek, and he still felt reluctant to do so. Their moments together had been… too intimate, too _important_ for Scott to spoil with his doubts. Not to mention that Scott had already basically stuck Stiles under house arrest just for liking Derek; he’d probably never leave Stiles’ side if he thought he and Derek had seen each other and he’d lied about it.

But still. This was beyond stupid.

“Come on, Scott. He’s _Derek_ , ok? We’ve been through so much crap together. Why are you so hell bent on giving up on him?”

Scott sighed.

“Remember there was a time when you begged me to kill him?”

Stiles stared, jaw locked, because that was so not the point. His friend slid a slow glance to his dad before dropping his gaze, head shaking.

“There was something else.” 

Which definitely sounded not-good. Stiles hadn't heard about anything else; definitely not anything that would make Scott look like that.

“Something else besides him killing people?”

“Something worse.” He ran a finger along the grainy table surface, reluctant to speak. Stiles’ throat felt suddenly tight.

“Scott, talk to me.”

“The Nogitsune… it told me, whispered to me. I don’t think anyone else heard.” He stopped again, grimacing, and Stiles fought the urge to reach across the table and shake the words out of him.

“ _Scott._ ”

It finally came out in a rush: “It told me Derek was going to kill all of us. That it wasn’t going to have to do anything, that when Derek was ready he’d do it all himself.”

Stiles felt himself freeze, felt his next breath catch in his throat.

“He wouldn’t… why? Why would he?”

Scott shook his head, still staring at the table.

“I don’t know. Random impulses, like Mr. Argent said? The Nogitsune made it sound like Derek would want to, like it would ‘free’ him or something, once the people he cared about were dead.”

His dad was shifting restlessly over by the counter. Stiles couldn’t tear his eyes off Scott’s face.

“Scott… it’s a trickster. It was just trying to scare you.”

“Maybe,” Scott said thinly. His eyes dragged back up. “But I don’t care. If it comes down to Derek or… or Lydia, or Isaac, or _you_ … Stiles, it’s not even a question, ok? I’m not losing anyone else I love.”

“Neither am I.”

Scott nodded, looking pained. Stiles couldn’t help feeling like battle lines were being drawn, and he and his best friend weren’t on the same side.

.-

The demon pressed kisses into Derek’s broken flesh, tongue raking boldly into the bites, lapping up blood and digging the tears wider. Derek was whimpering under him, eyes squeezed shut, pinned and wrenching ineffectually against the brutal assault.

“Just tell me to stop, Derek.”

Of course he didn’t.

The blood was bitter in the demon’s mouth, but the way Derek arched into it, flinched away from it, made it more than worth it.

And then, halfway through another breathless gasp, Derek froze.

“What the hell?”

The demon grinned.

“I was wondering when you’d notice.”

He couldn’t smell what Derek could, couldn’t hear the heartbeats thrumming from the second floor of the loft, but he was surprised it had taken this long for Derek to pick up on them. He’d been so single-mindedly focused when he’d stormed into the loft… it had been adorable, really, and the demon had felt no need to interrupt him.

“What’s…” he breathed in deep, and the demon raked another bite across his chest. “What are they doing here?”

He shivered as a hand dragged down his thigh, clutching the back of his knee and hiking it upward.

“They’re my next present to you, _Der_. All tied up this time and ready to unwrap. I’ve heard that courtship involves an awful lot of gift-giving, and I wouldn’t want to shirk my duties.”

A scrape of teeth against Derek’s jaw left him arching, gasping.

“The hell are you talking about?”

It could feel the struggle running straight through the wolf – the desire to focus, to get answers, when all his body wanted to do was let go.

“The hunters this morning? They were a good start. But we’re going straight down the list, baby. Everyone who ever hurt you… we’re going to rip them apart, piece by piece. My mating gift to you.”

It licked a bloody kiss into Derek’s mouth, felt him groan into it before turning away, brows furrowing.

“I don’t… I don’t want to…”

Derek had resisted softness so far, but when the demon leaned in to brush a kiss against the shell of his ear, he shivered and didn't shift away. Maybe his visit to the Nogitsune's mortal shell had done some good.

The demon smiled, dropping its hold on Derek's leg and trailing gentle fingers down the wolf’s side.

“I remember the look on your face after they made you kill Boyd. Your hands shaking, drenched in his blood. You were crying, Derek.” Another kiss, this one against his cheek. Derek's eyes squeezed shut, and lips feathered against his long lashes. “They killed their own pack; they let Erica die. They imprisoned your sister for months to turn her into a monster. And they made you murder someone you loved. I wanted to kill the twins then, and I’m _going_ to kill them now. Will you help me?”

Derek sucked in a breath, his eyes opening.

“Stiles,” he said faintly. “ _Stiles_ was there then.”

It leaned in close, their noses brushing.

“Your point being?”

And it kissed him, slow and languid and bloody, and Derek surrendered to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am I really killing the twins? Honestly, I'm not sure yet. Depends on how dark we want this to get.
> 
> Love you all, let me know what you think.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, it has been a long time. A kind of unforgivably long time. I understand if you all hate me. Hopefully my other fics have been keeping you entertained.
> 
> Here's my first update of the day as promised for BEATING DESTIEL IN THE SLASH MADNESS TOURNAMENT!! This past week of voting has been insane, guys, and I'm so proud of our fandom.

There was safety in sensation.

Derek arched to escape his thoughts. Ground, grasped, and growled for more as though the sweat-slick of their naked bodies could wipe away the memory of this morning, of yesterday, the nightmare of his life before it. He didn’t want to feel anything but the bruises blooming and healing across his skin like fireworks, the demon’s lips and teeth against his broken flesh.

He could do it. He could forget. Despite this _need_ writhing inside him, the echo of Stiles’ smile and his sleepy assurances, his hands smoothing down Derek’s sides… He could stay away. He had to.

For both of them.

There was something wrong with Stiles. It had hit Derek at some point while they lay tangled together – some hazy realization between panic and perfection, when Stiles had dozed off, when Derek had started to spiral again, breathed in deep to calm himself and finally, shockingly understood what distinguished the scent of the boy from the scent of the Nogitsune: The Nogitsune smelled like death. Stiles smelled like _dying._

“Hurt me. _More._ ”

Derek’s voice was a rasp of ache and unbridled emotion, arching to coax the demon’s teeth harder into his skin, writhing against its dominating hands just so he could feel them pin him harder.

The pain felt good, cathartic.

And then, at some point in the lust-hazed delirium, he gasped in deep and smelled the prisoners.

.-

The twins’ blood was heavy in the space at the top of the stairs, as though the Nogitsune had been amusing itself by cutting into them while it awaited Derek’s return. They were healed now, but slitted fabric and bloodstains still told the story. Each twin was gagged and bound to a heavy wooden chair, and a faint scent of wolfsbane blended with the blood on Derek’s next inhale, making his nose twitch.

The ropes had been soaked in it, Derek decided, catching a glimpse of Aiden’s raw wrists as he shifted to scowl toward the stairs where Derek hovered, hand clasping the rail, not sure what he was feeling, how to react. Now both twins were watching him, eyes dark with confusion, anger, _betrayal._

That last one hit Derek in a way that set his wolf snarling. His hand gripped the rail until he felt it begin to bend.

_Betrayal?_

Who were they to look at _him_ like a betrayer? Who were they to sit here in the same loft where they’d held him down and forced his claws into Boyd’s chest, and look at Derek like they’d expected better of him?

He only realized that his lips had curled to echo his wolf’s reaction when a lithe, long-fingered hand touched his side, running up it soothingly. For just a second everything in him screamed _Stiles,_ the fingers achingly familiar, comforting in a way he wouldn’t have recognized before this morning. Then the hand slid to rub up Derek’s bare chest, grabbing his chin and twisting it until he met the demon’s smirking gaze.

“You feel so _good_ when you’re angry.”

And then it was gone, crossing the open space in quick steps. It was captivating, lithe and catlike in too-loose, borrowed jeans that hung low on its angled hips. The long, pale plains of its back were unmarked, already healed from the welts Derek had dug into it during their desperate rutting, and Derek lost track of things, lost himself to the vision, the motion, the _not dying, it can’t die_ look _at how quickly it heals_ until the twins’ gags were being tugged down in tandem and Ethan was snapping: “Derek, you realize this _isn’t Stiles_ , right?”

Stiles would react comically to something like that, arms flailing up in exasperation, eyes rolling toward the ceiling. The demon’s brows barely twitched; it glanced back to Derek, smirking in a way that was a little bit fond and a lot feral.

“Well, they caught me, Der. The jig’s up. I guess you’ll have to kill me.”

“I’d rather kill them.” It sounded like sex, graveling out of his throat, and the demon’s eyes went soft and hot as though he’d just breathed out a dirty love confession. Derek felt pleased with himself, strangely proud, as it let out an approving sound and reached out to him, palm outstretched. Derek followed it forward.

.-

Scott left pretty soon after he’d shared his news. He looked wrecked, exhausted in more ways than one, and Stiles hadn’t resisted the urge to pull him into a fierce hug when he paused awkwardly in the doorway. Scott had frozen for a second or two before gripping him back just as desperately.

Stiles had wanted words, had searched for them in his mind, but none of the empty reassurances that sprang up seemed to fit. He couldn’t say it would be ok. Even if they fixed this, even if they saved Derek, nothing would be ok. Allison was still dead.

And he couldn’t insist that Derek was still a good person, not without risk of it dissolving into another argument and Stiles _couldn’t_ deal with that right now. Was too tired to fight, didn’t want to think about Scott and him standing on different sides of an ever-widening divide.

So he just held onto Scott until his arms ached, until his lungs burned from all the things he felt and needed and couldn’t say. And then he pulled back, told Scott to get some rest, and then he was alone. Or, almost.

He slumped slowly forward against the now-closed door. The aches in his limbs had been slowly returning since he’d bounced down the stairs, feeling of things inside him burning and wearing down.

After a few rib-bruising heartbeats, he heard his dad shift into the hall behind him. His dad, who had helped lie for him, who’d defended Derek, even after he’d heard that he’d killed people.

Stiles waited until he heard the roar of Scott’s motorcycle coming to life, before turning to meet his dad’s eyes.

“Thank you.” And if his dad was thrown by the sincerity in his tone, he didn’t show it. He just stood there, watching Stiles with a pained look that made something twist deep inside his chest. He cleared his throat. “So… what do I owe you for being so cool about all that?”

It wasn’t an angry look in his dad’s eyes, or a disappointed look, and Stiles honestly couldn’t get a read on it. Then his dad sighed, crossing his arms and nodding pointedly back toward the dining room table.

“First, you’re going to tell me _exactly_ what’s been happening. Then we’re gonna see if we can find a way to stop that demon thing and save Derek.”

Stiles couldn’t help himself. He let out a low sob and launched himself forward, wrapping his dad in a hug that left his limbs burning.

Totally worth it.

.-

The demon kissed Derek, deep, filthy, and slow as they knelt together in front of Aiden’s chair. Derek lost himself in a haze of contact, the tongue slipping deep and dominating him as surely as if he’d been tied down as well. When it finally pulled back, it dragged a soft whine and a shudder along with it. Derek had forgotten where he was, lost in the wet sheen of the demon’s lips, the way they curled at the sound. He _wanted_.

Aiden’s voice, groaning, dragged him back.

“ _Seriously_? Come on, you can’t be _that_ hard up.”

“Shut up,” Ethan gritted, and Derek’s gaze floated toward him. There was something like understanding in his eyes, like respect, _concern,_ and Derek found himself flinching and hardening against it.

“So, how do you want this to go?” the demon breathed, lips ghosting against his throat. “I’ve got a few fun ideas, but it’s your show, Derek.”

Ethan was keeping his expression soft, trying to hold Derek’s gaze, and it was making him too real, too human. Hard to look had.

“Why are you doing this?” Even his voice was too much – gentle and reasonable, grating on Derek’s resolve. He was reminded suddenly, startlingly, of Chris Argent, soaked in gasoline and tied to a chair in his own apartment while a small flame danced in the air between them.

This wasn’t the same thing. That had been blind rage, uncontrollable anger. This was _justified_.

“Derek,” Ethan went on, cheek ticking in an effort to keep calm. “We’re allies. You saved us just last night, remember? We were shot up with wolfsbane; you brought us here and healed us.” As though Derek’s _memories_ were the problem. He sounded earnest, too, calm, like he was soothing some savage creature.

Derek fell into the role, lips curling away from his teeth, growling.

There was a conflict stirring inside him, the part of him that did remember helping them, remembered thinking it was the Right Thing To Do, that it was time to put old grudges behind them and to set a good example for the sake of Beacon Hills’ future and…

Aiden huffed, impatiently squirming against the ropes.

“It’s obvious, isn’t it? It’s the same damn thing as Lahey. They’re never gonna let it go.”

And just like that, the anger won out.

Derek’s hand was on Aiden’s throat in a second, features shifting and ducking close to release a deafening howl.

His snarling “Let it _go?_ ” overlapped with Ethan’s “shut _up_ , Aiden,” but it was too late. Too late to talk. Derek’s hand was stinging before he registered that he’d twisted to backhand Ethan in the jaw.

“No,” he snarled. “He’s just being honest. Thinks we should all _get over_ it.” And then he’s turned again, something vengeful writing in his chest, screaming _he’ll understand, I’ll_ make _him understand, turnabout’s fair play._ Then he was gripping Aiden’s wrist, slashing the burning rope with a casual flick of a claw. Freeing the hand. “Thinks it’s that easy. _Is_ it that easy? To feel your claws digging into the flesh of someone you cared about, someone who _trusted_ you? To feel their life draining away and knowing it was _your hand_ that did it?”

He wrenched Aiden’s wooden chair until it faced Ethan’s, and then Aiden’s free hand was being pressed against Ethan’s chest.

“How about you _show_ me how easy it is.”

The demon’s eyes, when Derek caught a fleeting glimpse of them, were rapt with attention, with approval, with _want,_ but Derek barely felt the thrill of it past the twisting, writhing _rage-grief-guilt_. Images of Boyd, Erica, Cora sparking through him, fueling his anger.

This was _justified._

His nails were digging into Aiden’s wrist, the backs on his hands, pressure points plus panic forcing Aiden’s claws out, his arm jerking uselessly against Derek’s grip.

Ethan made a sharp sound at the first press of claw against skin. Derek ducked to brace himself against Aiden, hold the chair in place as the younger wolf worked to throw himself backward.

“Should I leave you alive,” he hissed against Aiden’s ear. “To feel that guilt every day, to feel the sick self-hatred of surviving, knowing you should have done more, should have _been_ more? Of knowing the better person died today and it’s _your fault_ for failing him?”

He _shoved_ his palm against Aiden’s hand, forcing the claws in deeper, feeling the slick sensation of Ethan’s blood starting to trail out over his fingers and…

And then it was Boyd.

Boyd crouching in front of him, blood trailing freely down his chest, face contorted as he tried, against all reason, to smile through the pain. He’d been gentle in his last moments, selfless, reassuring Derek with his dying breaths that it was ok…

He was stumbling back blindly, tripping over old memories, chest aching like _he_ was the one with claws buried in them. A ragged whimper sounded through the air and he was sitting on the ground somehow, legs splayed out in front of him, staring at the blood on his hand.

Something shifted and then Stiles was standing over him, a hand coming down to rest on his shoulder. Derek choked on the sensation, the soothing comfort of the contact. _Stiles was here_ and it didn’t fix things, it didn’t fix anything, but he felt some of the ache in his heart easing out of him.

But it wasn’t Stiles’ voice – too calm, too bland to be Stiles’ voice – that sighed and said, “That was so close to being truly beautiful. Oh well, too much too soon, I guess.”

And then the hand was gone and Derek’s shoulder was cold, and the demon was striding forward, shoulders rolling in a casual shrug before he reached up and snapped Aiden’s neck.

Ethan was screaming, twisting against the wolfsbane ropes. His chest was damp, dark with blood.

Derek stared with dull eyes while the Nogitsune moved from Aiden’s slowly slumping corpse and circled toward the back of Ethan’s chair, unfazed by the electric blue eyes, the snaps and snarls and half-formed threats spilling from the living twin’s lips.

It rested its hands on the back of the wooden chair, looking up thoughtfully and finding Derek’s eyes.

“So what do you think? Should we let the better half live?”

.-

When Stiles swung the door open he found Isaac standing beside Argent on the stoop, eyes grim in the evening light, clutching a small case. Stiles hadn’t heard from him since Scott’s house the night before, since they’d all huddled together in numbed shock and silence to try to process Allison’s death. Now Scott had gone home to sleep and Isaac had finally crawled out of his solitary shell.

Stiles had no idea what to say.

“So what are we doing? Teen wolf tag-in?”

Isaac replied with a half-hearted eye-roll, glancing toward Argent and receiving a nod before stalking ahead into the house. Argent met Stiles’ eyes and nodded pointedly.

“Scott talked to you about this morning?”

Stiles let out a jerky nod. He didn’t want to go through this again.

“About Derek killing some hunters?” His tone carefully neutral.

Argent pressed his lips together.

“I’ve had some time to think. If I’m right about who they were, they weren’t the best examples of our kind. They think they’re above everyone else, play games with hunters and supernatural creatures alike.”

“And I’m guessing you don’t mean like Parcheesi.” Stiles paused, considering. What the hell even _was_ Parcheesi? “Or COD,” he amended. “’Cause I’d be totally down with playing COD against hunter reflexes some day.”

The rambling might have been obvious, but Stiles needed his brain working. Needed distractions. He was sick of thinking about Derek and the hunters, about how they’d tortured him while he was out of town, could have killed him and no one would have ever known. Their deaths didn’t really weigh on Stiles, except that it had been something the Nogitsune had wanted, that Derek had done it _with_ the demon.

…Was he with the demon right now?

(Of _course_ he was. Stiles forced his brain pointedly elsewhere.)

Argent’s lips twisted in a ghost of a smile, and Stiles wondered if maybe the pack should invite him to play COD some time. His apartment was going to be so quiet now.

And there’s another thing he was _not_ thinking about.

“Not those kinds of games,” Argent allowed. And then sighed. “I just… Derek might be losing himself to this, but he’s not gone yet. I just thought you should know that. He isn’t my priority, he can’t be. But I’d like to help find him, if that’s possible.”

Stiles’ jaw went tight. His lip valiantly fought a tremble and failed. But he _did_ manage to resist the urge to thank him or grin too bright or pull him into Stiles’ third hug of the hour. That would verge way too far into weird emotional territory. Instead he jerked a quick nod, proud at how well his composure held, and then led the way to the dining room. His dad was still there, watching Isaac place the black case he’d been holding on the table with an air of reverence.

He seemed lost for a second, and Stiles cleared his throat.

“Isaac, buddy. You ok there?”

He just twitched an eyebrow Stiles’ way, fingers smoothing down the edges of the lid, finding the clasps and springing them open.

“I’m fine. I’m here to help. Wasted half the day doing nothing—”

“ _Resting_ ,” Argent put in, and there was an exasperated fondness in his tone that Stiles had never heard. Isaac shrugged, like it was already familiar to him, and Stiles felt himself wondering if Argent’s house would be so quiet now after all. A shift had happened, lightning fast and not quite expected, but the two of them were acting the way Stiles had seen for ages between Scott and Deaton: like a master and protégé, or maybe even a father and son. An estranged son, who’d maybe been adopted like yesterday. But they could be good for each other, and Stiles wasn’t about to question it.

He _was_ about to question the case, though, because Isaac was still staring down at it, running his fingers along the edges like he was just waiting for someone to ask.

“So? What presents did you bring me? And don’t tell me it’s herbal tea, because I’ve had way too much tea shoved at me lately and let me tell you, it’s not helpful.”

Isaac rolled his eyes again, but Stiles could tell he was pleased with the clear opening. He straightened out his shoulders a little bit, proudly, before flipping open the lid.

“ _This_ is what I spent the other half of the day doing.”

There was a set of what looked like silver rings, except Stiles doubted any of the girls at school would be caught dead wearing jewelry topped with long, narrow triangles that curved to a deadly point at one end. The rest of the case was filled with a line of gleaming silver bullets. Some of them weren’t quite perfect, a little lumpy at the tips, but they all seemed functional. Stiles looked from the case up to Isaac, brows furrowing.

“It’s almost night,” Isaac offered by way of explanation. And Stiles’ brain reeled because he’d somehow actually forgotten what nightfall would bring. …This day had been so long.

Isaac flashed a feral grin that almost reached his still-deadened eyes, pulling one of the rings from the case and fitting it to the tip of his finger. The curved silver triangle immediately took on the effect of a wolf’s claw.

Silver. Argent had been carrying silver arrows this morning.

Stiles’ brows hiked up. Isaac glanced to Argent and then, more hesitantly to the Sheriff, but he flexed his silver-clawed hand and something in him hardened with resolve.

“Whatever else is going on… I don’t care. I know what my mission is. I’m taking down every one of those Oni before dawn.”

.-

In the end, Derek didn’t have a choice. Aiden’s claws had dug too deep, had hit something irreparable. Derek felt none of the sick satisfaction he’d started the encounter with as he watched Ethan’s snarls turn into sputters, as the blood ran freely down his chest. He found himself crawling forward, across the floor to kneel in front of him, hands hovering over the wound like it would stop the arterial bleed.

“I’m sorry.”

The words were inadequate. The demon rolled its eyes at them, and Ethan’s next gasp choked in his throat. He didn’t try to smile. He didn’t say it was ok. He held Derek’s gaze, fierce and steady, and growled: “ _Remember_ that. Don’t...”

And that was it, before his head drooped, his eyes going hazy and distant. Derek knelt in front of him until his heart stopped beating.

The demon was crouching beside him.

“You’re a disaster of complexities, you know that, Hale?” Its hand dipped to trail across the puddle of blood spreading out under Ethan’s chair. Then it lifted, painting an absent line down Derek’s throat. “You had no reason to like them. You _didn’t_ like them, I’m pretty sure. We should be celebrating right now.”

It crooked Derek’s chin and leaned in, looking ready to kiss Derek right there amidst the corpses and blood… and where this morning there had been a thrill in it, a sick afterglow of adrenaline at the victory against the hunters, now Derek just felt sick. He twisted away before their lips touched.

“They were trying to make amends.” He tried to explain, knowing the demon wouldn’t _get_ it. But it was important. “A fresh start.”

The demon watched him consideringly; he could feel those unfathomable eyes scanning across him, even as he looked anywhere but at it or the bodies. Finally, it reached out to press a hand against Derek’s chest. The palm felt slick and too warm, and Derek didn’t have to look down to see the bloody handprint soaking in over his heart.

“You’re such a work in progress,” it said, fondly. And then: “You know there are some things a person doesn’t come back from.”

The words wrenched something inside Derek – hitting guilt and stubbornness and sorrow and _truth._ Finally, his eyes went to it. Its lips slid into a slow smirk, and when It leaned in to kiss him again Derek let it, let the drag of tongues and teeth tug him right out of his troubled thoughts. When it finally pulled away Derek’s knees were soaked in blood. The demon’s eyes were dancing, light and teasing and looking like victory.

“Who do you hate more than anything in the world?”

Derek, kiss-dazed, distracted by the thickening scent of death in the air, nonetheless knew exactly where this was going. He hesitated, eyes flitting toward Ethan, shifting back out of the blood. The demon’s grip on his elbows kept him from escaping too far.

“This is supposed to be good for you, Derek. It can be so good. And it’s not like I don’t already know. Just say the name.”

Derek’s eyes squeezed shut. He wanted to please the demon. _God,_ he loved that look of approval in its eyes, the way it wouldn’t abandon him even at his darkest. The way it wanted to take care of him.

How long had it been since he’d had that? Since Laura?

 _Since this morning_ , a nagging voice whispered, and he fought to force it down. Stiles’ hands on his cheeks, Stiles’ body curled over him “like a blanket…” And his heart clenched fondly, clenched painfully, at the memory. The protective look in his eyes when Derek had told him about the hunters.

_“I’m glad you did it. I would’ve helped.”_

The demon was watching him, head tilted, brows lifted encouragingly. He ignored the thought of other eyes, just like those eyes, but warmer, younger. Too young for Derek, safer without his presence influencing them, darkening them. There were too many reasons not to think about Stiles.

Instead he distracted himself, felt through his mind, searching for who the demon might be implying. But all he came up with when he thought of pure hatred was blonde waving hair and brown eyes.

“Living or dead?” He hedged, and the demon looked unexpectedly thrilled with the answer.

“Oh, I was hoping you didn’t know. My former host didn’t know… but I've sensed it over this town, radiating out with an energy like—” It cut itself off, shifting in place excitedly. It seemed less like itself suddenly, too much like Stiles. It left Derek’s head spinning. Then it was kissing him again, fast this time, before rising smoothly to its feet. “Forget this.” Like the two corpses were something they could just shrug off. “This was ill-advised. But I have the greatest present for you, Derek. You won’t have any doubts about us after this.”

And then it was tugging Derek to his feet, grabbing his sides and licking into his mouth deeply, pressing against him so eagerly they both stumbled. And then, dipping to tongue roughly up Derek’s bloodstained neck, it pulled back, laughing.

“ _God,_ Derek, you’re going to love me. I’ll contact you soon.”

And then, lightning fast, it was gone. Leaving Derek behind with fresh corpses and a bloody handprint over his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not actually much Sterek this chapter, but I hope you guys can forgive me. Derek's definitely in over his head at this point, and the Nogitsune's adopting some interesting Stiles traits as time goes on. I'm definitely invested in this story again, and I won't take nearly this long to update this time. <3


	7. Chapter 7

The demon’s body thrilled with anticipation as it ghosted, swift and silent, through the crimson-bathed streets to the dilapidated motel where its prey lay in wait. It could blame the influx of energy on the sunset, on the way the control it exerted over the Oni flared back to life with the fading sun, but that would be a lie.

And if there’s one thing chaos never was, it was dishonest.

It was so close to having Derek completely. Somehow, in the course of a single day, that had become more important than freedom, more important than the thrill of violence or destruction. The demon could have all those things with Derek, could see him remolding into the perfect compliment to the demon’s chaotic soul. It was a sweet, miserable ache to be parted from him, to feel the doubt surging through him as he fought to hold himself together. The invisible threads tying the demon to its Oni were more obvious, maybe, but no more powerful. The demon _wanted_ Derek, burned to feel the way his soul twisted toward darkness and shied away again, eager and doubtful and needy. A perfect pupil, as soon as it could convince Derek that it was worth falling into the role.

The demon was ignoring everything else – the call of the Oni, the threat of the kitsune, the massacres it had planned back when it still wore Stiles’ true skin – to find ways to please Derek. To help him understand his own darkness, and how _easy_ it would be to give in to it.

There was no denying that the demon was changing as well… and it couldn’t bring itself to care.

It found its prey in the room at the end of the strip, the energy thrumming off her dark and unique, enticing in a way that would have intrigued the demon under other circumstances. The woman was built in layers of violence and desire, deception and brutal honesty. It made something spark and flare deep inside the demon. Perhaps in another life, if it had chosen another host, maybe, they could have been allies.

She would still help it, less willingly.

The demon shifted out of the shadows, knocked on the door, and smiled blandly when it swung open to reveal a pair of discerning brown eyes and a handgun leveled at its forehead.

“The sidekick,” Kate Argent said after a startled moment, her nostrils flaring, eyes flitting out across the deserted parking lot. “They find out I’m here and they send in the human to confront me? Gotta say, I’m not exactly surprised by the disregard for your life, but I _am_ a little disappointed that you would just go along with it.”

Said the supposed protector of humanity, aiming a gun at his head. The demon swallowed a smirk.

“No one knows I’m here, Kate.” And then, shrugging: “No one knows you’re here either.”

And the woman winced, mock sympathy, tapping her finger against the trigger.

“Oh, baby, that really was the _wrong_ thing to say.”

The demon’s smile stretched.

.-

Derek felt himself go through the motions of showering, days’ worth of blood running off him in rivulets onto the pale tile. Ethan’s blood, the hunters’ blood, his own. He watched it trail down the drain, watered-down and pink-orange in the sunset light. Ran his hair through the water and found more.

He scrubbed fiercely at his chest long after the handprint had washed away.

The twins’ corpses were still tied to chairs over the cooling puddle of Ethan’s blood. Derek would have to move them soon, or they’d be stuck like that for the next day or so, a gruesome, rigid display, playacting at life as the ropes held them from slumping too far.

Derek left the shower, avoided his own face in the mirror, and slipped into a loose pair of sweats and a shirt he barely saw. He stripped the sex-soaked sheets from his own bed before thinking better of it, pulling out clean ones instead before trailing his way back up the spiral staircase and cutting the twins, one at a time, from their bonds. When they were laid out on the floor with a blue sheet spread over them, a small brown stain forming where it had fluttered down to stick to Ethan’s chest, Derek turned away and padded back downstairs. He poured himself a glass of water, drank it, replaced the sheets on the bed with fresh ones – his last set, he’d need to wash the others sometime soon – and paced away to hover uncertainly at the middle of the room.

At some point he realized that his eyes were returning constantly to his phone.

_“You’re going to love me, Derek.”_

He couldn’t imagine what the demon was planning. He couldn’t _feel_ if he couldn’t imagine.

He wondered if the small creature buried deep inside his chest was dying, taking his ability to feel anything with it. Where before his emotions had been sparking uncontrollably, directing him to fight, to kiss, to find the demon or Stiles, at this moment he was being led by nothing. Too numb to know how to act.

The blood was heavy in the air. He was standing in the exact spot where he’d murdered Boyd. He wondered if he was going into shock.

He focused again and found his hands on the phone, thumbing frantically through his contacts, stopping to hover for a second over the freshly added _Me_ before continuing downward. Down fast through the sparse list of names, landing squarely on _S_.

There were three numbers in that section. His eyes fell to one, hand physically aching as it hovered over the call button. His breaths dragged out slower, just the sight of the name enough to pull him out of his daze. To remind him exactly why he shouldn’t call it.

He let out a slow breath, moved up one number, and decisively slammed down on the call button.

The Sheriff’s voice was gruff with poorly covered surprise when he answered, offering a careful “ _yes_?” that seemed to suggest he didn’t want someone around him knowing who was on the other end.

He wasn’t alone.

Words caught in Derek’s throat, ears straining despite himself to pick up Stiles’ heartbeat, the sound of his breathing, over the line. If he _was_ there, the connection wasn’t clear enough for Derek to register it. And Derek was second-guessing all this suddenly… wanting to hear Stiles’ voice, not his father’s, wanting to hang up to eliminate the temptation, to be as far away from him as possible. He needed to stay away.

“ _Are you there?”_ It sounded like the Sheriff was moving, talking low, trying to shift into another room, away from prying ears.

“I killed two people.”

It came out fast and blunt, a little shaky. And maybe Derek hadn’t killed Aiden, not in the strictest sense, but he’d been planning on it, he’d watched it happen. Hadn’t moved to stop it. Had kissed the demon beside his corpse. He might as well have snapped his neck, himself.

Shaking his head, shuddering his way out of that memory, he corrected: “Eight people. Six this morning, two just now. I…” His legs felt weak under him, all the energy going out of him as the weight of the confession slammed home. He could imagine the expression on the Sheriff’s face: shock, disgust, if he was lucky. He had always hated phones, static and poor reception interfering with hearing heartbeats, holding a conversation without physical tells or being able to scent emotions... but right now he was grateful for the distance.

The Sheriff had been firm this morning, but kind. That would all be gone now.

There was a long pause, a tired breath, and then: “ _Why are you telling me this?”_

Why _was_ he? ‘I just needed to say it’ wasn’t a good enough answer. ‘I don’t know how I feel about it, I need someone to convince me it’s not ok, or I might do something worse next.’

He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting for focus inside his reeling mind.

“Isn’t that what you do when there’s a crime? Report it to the authorities?”

“ _Are you turning yourself in?_ ”

He imagined himself sitting behind bars at the Sheriff’s station again. Remembered a bomb going off, fallen deputies scattered everywhere. He couldn’t imagine the Nogitsune leaving him in a cell.

“Even if I wanted to,” and he didn’t know if he wanted to, “it would be safer if I didn’t.”

There was another pause, a weary sigh. When the Sheriff spoke again, his voice was strained.

“ _The ones this morning, they were… they hunted your kind, didn’t they? They’d attacked you, threatened your family? Self defense?”_ So he’d been talking to Stiles. Derek breathed in sharply, choked on the scent of death in the air. _“Who were the other two?_ ”

“Does it matter?” Part of him felt vindicated. The part of him that wouldn’t move from this spot on the floor, that smelled death in the loft and thought _Boyd_. “Former enemies of mine. Former alphas, twins. I had my reasons. They mattered at the time. But I don’t…” He faltered, hand clenching. He realized suddenly that he’d reached the reason why he’d called. The reason he’d gone to the Sheriff instead of Stiles. “I need you to understand what I’m capable of. Stay on your guard. I can’t…” Again, he toyed with the idea of surrendering, but the thrill of _feeling_ , of his walls being stripped away… Of the demon’s praise, of its strength and _safety_ and finally having a place to belong… The rush of killing Severo and his men, kissing the demon amongst the bloodied corpses… “I can’t stop. I don’t want to. I don’t…”

 _“You’re not happy like this.”_ It wasn’t a question. “ _People don’t call the Sheriff in a panic when they’re proud of what they’ve done._ ”

A sound escaped Derek, a choked, low whine. The blood was so thick in the air. He stumbled a step, half-startled that the floor beneath him wasn’t drenched in it.

“ _We want to help you, son. But you need to_ want _the help._ ”

The words were like a burn and a balm inside of him. He didn’t deserve them, wasn’t sure how to earn them. Didn’t want that faith to turn into disappointment, but at the same time…

“I’m not… I’m _fine._ I just need…”

What the hell _did_ he need? Why had he made this call? He needed the demon. Things were so simple when it was just the two of them: the demon’s desires, and Derek playing into them.

As if summoned by his rising panic, a new voice floated over the line.

“ _Dad, let me talk to him.”_

A needy sound dragged out of Derek’s throat almost before he’d registered the words. _Stiles_. He needed to stay away, he’d promised to stay away, but he wanted…

“ _Stiles—”_

_“Isaac told me it’s Derek, ok, just… let me talk to him. I need to, Dad, please.”_

Derek hadn’t called Stiles for a reason. He needed to keep his distance, needed to clear his head. Stiles would either try to make this ok – and Derek wasn’t sure it _should_ be – or lose whatever strange, misplaced faith he had in him… and that thought was even worse.

_Run. Escape. Before—_

“ _Derek._ ”

Stiles was speaking directly into the phone now, and all thoughts of ending the call vanished. He felt himself slumping slowly to kneel on the blood-and-bleach stained floor, his chest aching in ways he couldn’t begin to explore.

“God, I miss you.”

It wasn’t supposed to come out, but it was a strange relief when the words escaped. Derek never would have said them before today, no matter how true they were.

Which was exactly why he couldn’t give this up.

There was a hitch in Stiles’ breath, a shuffle of movement – moving away from his dad, most likely, the same way the Sheriff had only moments earlier.

 _“Yeah, well we could have avoided any missing of anyone if_ someone _hadn’t run off while I was sleeping.”_

Derek’s eyes slid shut. He pictured Stiles pacing in front of him: the arched, challenging brows, a teasing lightness in his eyes. He tried to remember Stiles’ scent with his next breath, but blood and death chased it away.

Stiles had smelled like death.

“How are you feeling?”

There was a short, forced laugh.

“ _Is this like one of those morning after questions, because we’ve got a few more bases to go before it really applies here.”_

And God, that sounded good. That sounded damn close to perfect.

“Don’t tempt me.”

“ _Be tempted._ ” There was an edge to Stiles’ voice now, making Derek flinch even while he ached to soothe it. “ _Derek…”_ It softened then, into something low and comforting, the same tone that had kept Derek from running while they lay tangled together in Stiles’ bed. “ _Just come back here, ok? We’ll figure this out.”_

Derek’s fingers traced the uneven wood beneath him. The twins’ corpses rested beneath a blue sheet overhead.

“…I killed Aiden and Ethan.”

There was a short pause, and Derek wanted to drop the phone, scramble back from it. He’d ruined everything; _Christ_ , he’d just ruined everything. Stiles wouldn’t ever look at him the same way after—

“ _I know.”_

…He knew? He knew and he was still talking to Derek. He knew and he was still asking him to come back.

“ _Isaac heard you tell my dad. I… I think he’s kind of in shock over it. …How are you doing?”_

Stiles wanted to know how _he_ was doing.

He was a murderer, now. A murderer. He’d earned every bit of his cold blue eyes. It wasn’t like killing the Calaveras; they’d been attacking him. It wasn’t even like Paige, a release, or what he’d done for Kate out of ignorance. Those crimes still weighed him down, seeping into his soul, but this…

This had been…

They’d been tied up, helpless. That was the difference, Derek thought. That’s why this was eating at him. It hadn’t been a fair fight.

…But if it had been?

“I’m not sure.” He couldn’t think straight. “I can’t… this damn bug’s breaking, or dying… It was supposed to give me clarity.”

“ _Derek…_ ” Stiles’ voice was quiet now, firm and thick with badly stifled emotion. Derek wanted to wrap himself in it. He wanted _Stiles_. “ _Don’t hang up, don’t run, just… listen to me. Come back, ok? This thing… it’s tearing you apart and you know it. I know you think you need it, but you—”_

“I think I’m in love with you.”

The words shuddered out of him, raw and open and desperate. Stiles cut off fast, choked on a whimper, and Derek could hear his heartbeat suddenly, the way it started thudding, fast and wild like it wanted to slam right through the phone connection and into Derek’s waiting hands.

 _“You… I…_ ”

“I never would have said that before. Never would’ve let myself feel it. Maybe I don’t deserve to, but I _can_ now and… don’t you get it, Stiles? I _need_ this.”

There was a short, startled pause. The heartbeat pounded fast in Derek’s ears, and he ached to know what scents accompanied it.

“ _Derek… god, I can’t believe the first time you said that to me was to win an argument.”_ His voice came out thin, shaky. A laugh slipped out. “ _Who am I kidding, of course I can. Come back here so I can punch you, you jerk. And then kiss you. I really need to kiss you right now, for like a thousand different reasons.”_

Claws were digging into the blood-and-bleach floor. The scents were long gone, even beyond Derek’s senses. But it was there, like it had just happened.

In a way, it had. History repeating, but they’d just swapped roles. Last time his sin had been weakness, failure to protect his own. Now… now there was a bloody handprint on Derek’s heart, deep beneath the skin.

“I’m not supposed to go near you.”

An edge of anger crept into Stiles voice.

“ _Who the fuck says?”_

Your father, he didn’t say. That wasn’t even the real answer, anyway.

“I’m dangerous.”

He could hear Stiles’ teeth gritting.

“ _Killing people you hate doesn’t mean you’ll hurt me too. I won’t be losing sleep over them.”_ A pause and then, more hesitant: _“…Do you feel like you’ll hurt me?”_

Derek ached to be wrapped in Stiles’ arms again, lost in lazy kisses, a warm body draped over him, soothing hands caressing his sides, chasing his doubts away.

“I never know what I’ll do until I do it.”

Stiles needed to give up on him. He needed Stiles to convince him otherwise. And a dozen rapid heartbeats later, Stiles almost did.

“ _…What’s the point of being able to admit you love me, if it means you can’t be with me?_ ” It sounded so simple put like that. Derek felt himself trembling, claws digging welts into the wood floor. His body ached to get up and run the eight miles across town, to grab onto Stiles and never let go. “ _Come back, Derek. We can go to Deaton. We can get that thing out of you, ok? You won’t be dangerous anymore. We can—_ ”

“I can’t.”

“ _Like hell you can’t. You won’t._ ”

He heard tears creeping in Stiles’ voice, thick and frustrated. Wanted to kiss them away, to do whatever it took to stop him sounding like that. He failed to fight a plaintive sound.

“I could kiss you forever.”

Stiles snorted. It sounded wet through the tears.

_“Definitely wouldn’t complain. Come back, ok? We’ll go for a record.”_

Stiles still didn’t understand. This was all so simple for him: want something, take it. Why not, right?

“Stiles, I… I never would’ve told you that without this thing in me. I never would have come to you like I did today. I wouldn’t let myself… I don’t know _how._ ” His eyes were burning, his own throat tight. “We never…”

 _“Derek…_ ” It was so soft. Softer than he’d thought Stiles capable of sounding. “ _Look, I… I know you’ve got walls, man. I’m not exactly Mr. Emotional Availability either, ok? But that doesn’t mean you don’t feel things, can’t feel things. I’ve_ seen _you feel things._ ”

Stiles’ hand, warm on his shoulder. Anchoring him in the flooded room while everything fell apart.

“Right here… I cried. I couldn’t save him, I should’ve…” But this wasn’t the same. He hadn’t let those emotions out, they’d been _torn_ from him. And he’d retreated for days afterward to hide. To build his walls back up. He’d pulled away from Stiles, buried Boyd alone, hadn’t so much as acknowledged Cora when she came out to say her goodbyes. He should have been there for her, but he’d run, unable to handle the way his emotions had been flooding out of him. If he couldn’t handle that… what was he going to become when this bug in him died?

“ _Hey, Derek, it’s not like…_ Y _ou’re still_ you _. Like you said this morning. Right now you just can’t hide it. And… now I know, ok? I know how you feel and I… I know it won’t be the same. After. All this stuff you’re saying, don’t get me wrong, it’s awesome to hear, but... I’m not expecting you to be all, Constant Love Confessions guy. I don’t even know how to deal with that anyway, I mean…”_ He trailed off, and Derek could picture him raking a hand through his hair, maybe shooting a nervous glance back toward where Isaac was surely listening in on every word, if not the Sheriff and who knew who else. “… _You cared about me before all this, didn’t you?_ ”

More than he was supposed to. Too much.

“I never would have—”

“ _That’s not what I’m asking. Just… this isn’t some kind of transference thing, because you’re all… with the Nogitsune.”_

He was phrasing it like a statement, but Derek could hear Stiles’ heart fluttering nervously. Could feel the question in the words. He bit his tongue for all of a second before: “I wanted the demon because I wanted you.”

Stiles swallowed thickly.

“ _Good. God… that’s good. I… Derek, please. I’ve wanted you so fucking long and now I’m this close to having you and I can’t… just come_ be _with me, ok? Everything else… we’ll work it out. If you shut down after this is all over… we’ll deal with it. I’ll follow you around and annoy you into being with me, ok? You_ know _I don’t give up on things; I can’t let things go. Just… fuck, Derek, don’t let us go.”_

He felt himself shifting, climbing unsteadily back to his feet. He couldn’t do any more of this over the phone. He needed to see Stiles, touch him. God, he’d give him whatever he wanted, whatever would soothe that ache in his voice.

“I…” There were scars of claws on the slightly warped, wooden floor. “You won’t let me hide?”

“ _Just try running. I’ll have Scott sniff you out if I have to. I swear to God, Derek._ ”

He could do this. If Stiles wanted him to, he could do it.

Maybe it was stupid, maybe it was a mistake… but he trusted Stiles.

“I… ok. Ok, I’ll…”

He’d been distracted, too focused on Stiles, on his own overwhelming emotions. That was the only explanation for why he didn’t hear the footsteps, the pair of heartbeats, before the door swung open.

And the world stopped making sense.

Kate Argent stepped into the loft, hands crossed casually behind her back, blonde hair tossing as she caught leveled him with an easy grin.

Kate Argent.

 _Kate Argent._ That didn’t…

Derek barely noticed the demon stepping into the loft behind her, sliding the door shut, leaning back against it with crossed arms and dancing eyes. His hand dropped slowly, the phone falling to his side. If he’d thought he’d been slipping into shock after the twins… that had been nothing. His entire body was buzzing with everything he couldn’t feel. Too much, too… it didn’t… The tinny, worried “ _Derek?_ ” chiming out from his hand didn’t even register.

Kate’s eyes roved brazenly over him. Derek eyed her hidden hands, the idea of a weapon hidden just out of view. She shifted, a glint of metal shining, and Derek flinched before recognizing a pair of metal cuffs gleaming there instead.

Her hair was straighter than it had been when he’d known her, her skin tan as though she’d spent a lot of time in the sun despite the midwinter chill. Skinny jeans and tall boots made her lean legs look longer, and each step she took felt more like a prowl. A smear of blood at the edge of her lip spoke of a recent fight, though Derek couldn’t see the wound the blood had sprung from. Something about her stance screamed _predator_ despite the handcuffs. …And Derek was focusing on the small details because he couldn’t take in the enormity of it. The impossibility. His eyes floated past Kate to the demon, then shot back before a full second had passed. He couldn’t look away. Fear and shock. Shock and numb.

“I don’t… you’re dead.”

Kate laughed, outright _laughed,_ and it was familiar and cold and belonged in a dusty box in the back of his brain where all the dead memories were stored. Not out in the living world, attached to that face, that wicked grin he’d loved back before he knew that all love ended in destruction.

“Not quite, handsome. But don’t act so surprised. I’m not exactly the strangest thing to show up in this town lately.”

She cast a sideways look back at the demon, who rolled his shoulders in a careless shrug. Its eyes hadn’t left Derek since it entered the room.

“I told you you were gonna love me. So, you want to thank me first or kill her?”

_“Derek, what’s happening?”_

Derek couldn’t focus on either of them, his whole brain buzzing with _Kate_. With _impossible_. With the raw loathing the sight of her smirking face called up. His hands squeezed into fists. Something crumpled in one palm, the sound of plastic shattering.

“How are you here?”

She shrugged, the motion made tight by her pulled-back shoulders.

“Your little not-so-human friend tracked me down. Said he wanted to bring me to you, and since I was going this way anyway…”

The blood on her mouth suggested it hadn’t gone that smoothly, but Kate didn’t look worried. Derek didn’t know if she was capable of it. If she had any idea what it was that was standing behind her, smirking at Derek, silently beckoning for him to take out his revenge fantasies on the woman who’d destroyed any hope for peace in Derek’s life… and hadn’t even managed to die for it.

She hadn’t died, and she’d been coming for him. Hadn’t Derek given her enough?

“What do you want from me?”

She sighed.

“Oh baby, we’ll get there. But first, why don’t you ask me the question that’s really on your mind?”

He barely felt his hand bleeding, pieces of broken plastic digging deep into his palm as he clenched his fist tighter.

“How are you _alive_?”

Her teeth gleamed, too sharp in the moonlight.

“Good boy. Let’s see if this helps you figure it out.”

There was a sound of breaking metal, and Kate’s shoulders rolled freely. Eyes flashed from brown to an impossible green. Her teeth were definitely fangs now, skin morphing into a monstrous blue as she launched herself forward.

The demon leaned against the door and smiled.

.-

 _“Fuck_ technology.” Stiles nearly slammed the phone into the nearest wall, catching himself at the last second and remembering that it was his dad’s phone, not his own. And, well, killing his own phone would probably be a bad move too, what with needing to call people for backup and it being a handy flashlight when he’d been kidnapped by the demon in his brain and, oh yeah, the fact that it had cost a couple hundred bucks they couldn’t really afford to spend replacing right now.

He settled for kicking against the wall like a five year old, glaring at the cheerful “call ended” message on the screen until it went dark.

Because, seriously, did every phone call with Derek have to end with Stiles fearing for the guy’s life?

He’d almost gotten through to him. He’d been so goddamn close. Derek had been saying yes.

(…Derek had said he _loved_ Stiles. And that… that was just… that was too…)

Isaac was watching Stiles with an unreadable look that somehow still managed to speak volumes as he stalked back into the room, placed the phone too carefully back on the table, and slumped down into the nearest chair.

“Just shut up, ok? Don’t.”

“I wasn’t gonna say anything.” And Stiles managed to be grateful for all of four seconds before Isaac shrugged mildly, adding: “Never heard him sound like that before.”

“Yeah, well that’s what you get for evesdropping.” Stiles swallowed, squeezed his eyes shut briefly. Then: “Did you recognize that voice at the end?”

Isaac arched a brow. He seemed to be going overtime on the casual front ever since he’d nearly toppled straight over hearing that Aiden and Ethan were dead. There had been honest to god tears in his eyes when Stiles and Argent steadied had him, his voice breaking a little as he’d murmured: “I thought it would feel better.”

Now he was definitely going for some kind of unhelpful snark award though, because he offered evenly: “You mean the voice that sounded like yours?”

And Stiles had been trying like hell not to think of _that_ voice.

_I told you you were gonna love me._

He wasn’t thinking about it.

Derek had said he thought he loved Stiles. He’d been on the verge of agreeing to come back here, despite all of his (let’s be honest here) twelve-zillion or so emotional hang-ups. That meant something. Stiles had to trust in all that for a little longer.

“The woman’s voice.”

But Isaac just shrugged.

“Derek thought she should be dead,” he offered, like that was any help.

“That could be one of like a dozen people.”

At least. That Stiles knew of. Girls Derek knew that were supposed to be dead… That was a disturbingly long list. He didn’t let himself linger on it.

Instead he leaned back in his chair, fought a wince as his muscles ached and burned at the minor movement, and leveled a skeptical look on Argent.

He’d gotten more than hope and frustration out of that phone call.

_Right here… I cried. I couldn’t save him…_

“Did you guys seriously not check for Derek in his own loft?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is love, guys.


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